


Ulfhedinn - Part 3

by KatWylder



Series: Úlfheðinn [3]
Category: BattleTech, BattleTech: MechWarrior, MechWarrior
Genre: Gen, Mecha, Post-Clan Invasion, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 58,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5796385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatWylder/pseuds/KatWylder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 3049, the Clans descended upon the InnerSphere, devastating all who opposed their crusade. With superior technology and warriors genetically bred for combat, they cut a swath of destruction that has forever changed the galaxy. But the Battle of Tukayyid proved that they are not invincible.</p><p>No one is more convinced of this than Sigurd, a MechWarrior who has devoted his life to making the Clans pay for their crimes. In the midst of his struggle, he finds himself trapped behind enemy lines and forced to make a deal for his life. But the Clans are not the only demons he must face...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part III

 

Chapter 28

 

JumpShips were curious vessels. Unlike DropShips, which operated under more observable laws of physics, JumpShips rarely moved. They could maneuver a little using their thrusters, if needed. Primarily, though, they existed in one location, then engaged their Kearny-Fuchida drives and suddenly existed in another location. Although the transit itself was very quick, this kind of travel was actually quite time-consuming. Every time the Wolves' _Invader_ hauled its bulk to a new star, it had to spend the next week or so charging its K-F drive. Most of the journey, therefore, was spent sitting at the zenith or nadir point of a system with blood-red solar sails unfurled, while the ship gorged itself on sunlight.

The warriors did get a small reprieve during the journey, having once taken a very brief shore leave on Sevren to spare them the deleterious effects of microgravity. Aside from that, however, it was day after day of alternating between weightlessness and grueling-but-necessary exercise on the grav deck.

Fortunately, the repetitive trek was now over. The Thirteenth Wolf Regulars had finally made landfall on Weingarten, where they would have a little time to stretch their legs and recover before departing on their next assignment.

Sigurd walked down the DropShip's ramp with the other MechWarriors, and watched as his breath turned into fog in front of his face. It was winter in this region. Piles of snow lay strewn around the spaceport where the walkways had been swept clear. Beyond the gates, it spread out over the countryside like a blanket. He stood aside when he reached the bottom of the ramp, out of the way, and took a moment to survey the area. Frigid climates were not as alien to him now, as they had been when he first left Rotwelt, but he still found such things curious. Perhaps it was the stories he had grown up with. As a child, the myths his mother told of old Terra had fascinated him. Ancient lands of ice and snow and frost were of particular interest, because he had never seen such things for himself.

There was a crackling of workboots on gravel behind him. Sigurd did not bother turn around. He already knew who it was.

“Bondsman,” he growled, “I thought I told you to go help the Laborers.”

Matthew Lewin ambled up beside him. “Nice to see you, too, boss,” he muttered. “I _was_ helping them, but they kicked me out. Said I was getting in the way, and told me to go back to you.”

“ _Again?_ I should have left you in New Cartis.”

“That woulda suited me just fine,” the bondsman mused sourly. “At least then, I could smoke.”

Sigurd turned and furrowed his brow. Matthew's face had grown gaunt and a bit sallow since his capture, and dark circles ringed his eyes. The scruffy beard did nothing to dispel the illusion that he had aged an extra ten years during the trip. Although he was still quite willful, he had grown somewhat resigned to his predicament.

“This is your third strike.”

“Already? But I— Wait. What happens on three?”

“Reduced rations. If your work ethic improves, you will be put back on normal rations.”

“There anything I can do to get some cigarettes?”

“No.”

“Fuck.” Almost as soon as he cursed, he cringed. “Dammit! I mean— Ah, damn— Fuck!”

Sigurd elbowed him in the ribs harshly. “Stop talking. You are stuck in a loop, again.”

Matthew pulled at his hair and groaned. He had been attempting to curtail his swearing, as instructed. Every time he slipped, however, he became more frustrated and ended up swearing more, because of it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared out at the horizon, scowling.

“What're we here for, anyhow?”

Unlike the aforementioned linguistic struggle, the man's efforts at cutting down on his use of contractions had only lasted for the first two days of his bondservice. That was Sigurd's least concern about him, though.

He had been giving Matthew the most menial tasks possible. He did this firstly because he did not trust the man at all, and secondly because Matthew had been nothing but a headache for him. That seemed unlikely to change any time soon.

“Resupply, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“As though I would tell you more.”

The bondsman smirked. Matthew had never been good at lying to him, but by the same token, neither had he been good at lying to Matthew. When they had served together, when they had been friends, he had never had a reason to do so.

“Heh. You don't know, do you? Doesn't that bother you?”

Sigurd shook his head. “We go where the Keshik sends us. The will of the Keshik—”

“—Is the will of the Clan,” Matthew finished, grumbling. “Yeah, yeah. You keep tellin' yourself that, mate.”

“Do not address me that way. You are a bondsman,” Sigurd reminded him.

Matthew sighed and frowned deeply, and fidgeted with his bondcord. “I know. You never let me forget it.” He fell silent for a moment, Look, even if you don't believe me... I'm sorry about what happened to you.” He put a hand on Sigurd's shoulder. “But it wasn't—”

Sigurd wheeled around and shoved him away roughly. “Do _not_ touch me!”

He slipped on the pavement, but scrambled back to his feet quickly. “Shit! I'm sorry, okay? I forget.” Matthew backed away and gave a simpering smile. “Heh, you know me. Always been the touchy-feely sort.”

Sigurd just glowered. “I think you still fail to comprehend your situation.”

“No, I... I understand perfectly, now,” he replied bitterly. “It's just hard to stand by and watch, while my best friend turns into a _monster_.”

Matthew turned and stormed back up the ramp into the DropShip, against the flow of people. Sigurd made no attempt to stop him. He looked instead to the training grounds, where the distant silhouettes of the BattleMechs bobbed up and down as they trudged across the snowy field. When he looked back again, he saw the Star Colonel standing on the ramp, hands clasped behind his back, watching the horizon.

“I am going to the administration offices,” Akela said. “You are coming with me.”

He nodded and straightened his coat, then followed. “As you wish, ovkhan.”

“How have things been going with your bondsman?”

Sigurd let out a tired sigh.

“Oh. That bad?”

“He has finally stopped acting hysterical, but he still fails to grasp the purpose of bondservice. He is making no efforts to redeem himself.”

“You seemed to have no trouble with that concept, when you were a bondsman.”

“I was raised with a sense of honor.”

“By your mother?”

“Aff.”

“She was a MechWarrior.” The way Akela spoke, it did not sound like a question.

Sigurd slowed a little as he realized that he had never made mention of his mother's occupation. “What makes you say that, ovkhan?”

Akela gave him a somewhat baffled look. “Deduction. You said your father died when you were a child. Your mother must have taught you to pilot.”

Again, it did not sound like a question, and that concerned him. This was not something he considered at all secret, but the fact Akela seemed to know these things without hearing it from his own lips was worrisome. Had the Star Colonel been speaking with Matthew about him? They both fell silent after that, and continued along the avenue towards the administrative block.

In his studies of the Clan, Sigurd had seen images of the great Clan Wolf Hall on the Clan's original capital. It was a magnificent structure, hewn from living rock and carved into the shape of a wolf's head, complete with yawning jaws that served as the entryway. It was a commanding sight and one he would likely never have the chance to witness firsthand. No one really knew if the hall was even standing after the bloody fighting that ensued during the Wolves' abjuration.

“Do you ever feel homesick?” Sigurd asked suddenly.

“Homesick?” the other man repeated quizzically. Before Sigurd could clarify, he shook his head. “Ah, I always forget that means sick _for_ home, not sick _of_ home. But we warriors have no home.”

“I guess I mean to ask, do you ever miss Strana Mechty? You said you grew up there, quiaff?”

“Aff.” Akela wrinkled his nose as a snowflake touched it. “There are things I miss. There are also things I am glad not to see again. But Strana Mechty? It is just a planet. The things, the _people_ that I remember fondly... they are all gone.”

For just an instant, the Star Colonel looked saddened. The expression evaporated as he lifted his head and began to examine the building ahead of them with interest.

Its architecture reflected the Bauhaus Revival that had been popular when the planet was in Lyran hands, and appeared largely unchanged since the conquest of this world. The Wolves probably liked the crispness of it. They had added one of their own touches, though: the Clan insignia was emblazoned above the doors of all the important buildings. The nearest featured a banner with Theta Galaxy's emblem, as well. While they might have tread lightly during the invasion, the Wolf Clan was not shy in reminding the populace exactly who was in control.

Akela jogged up the short flight of steps, past the Elemental guards, and into the empty lobby. Sigurd followed quickly, albeit not so confidently. He did not wish to rush headlong into an area he might not be permitted to enter. The way seemed clear, though. They stopped in front of a set of double doors, scanned their codices, and proceeded down the first of several corridors. Several scans and one lift ride later, they came to a large conference room. It was not nearly so grand as what Sigurd had seen of the old Clan Hall, and it was much smaller. This space would seat perhaps a couple hundred people, at full capacity. The Star Colonel walked up to the dais at the back of the room and looked around curiously. Sigurd remained near the lift, having grown suddenly wary about this whole trip.

Past the dais, a door creaked open, and a middle-aged woman entered the room. She was not particularly big, (though Sigurd realized his perception might have become skewed from living amongst Clanners), but she was tall and carried herself with a very commanding posture. Despite her age, the way she moved suggested that she was in very good physical condition. As she turned, he noticed the rank patch on her shoulder: four red stars.

 _Our Galaxy Commander_. He had read her public dossier, but had not seen any images of her. Sigurd adjusted his own posture, trying to make himself appear as presentable and proper as a freeborn officer could hope to be in the eyes of a bloodnamed trueborn.

“Congratulations!” the Star Colonel exclaimed gleefully, and rounded the dais to walk by her side. He grinned.

“On _what?_ ” the woman asked with a clipped tone of voice that suggested she was already annoyed.

“Your promotion, of course. I have not had the chance to properly congratulate you, ovkhan.”

“Save your praise, whelp. I take no pleasure in the circumstances of my promotion,” she chided as she took a seat behind the dais. “Warren Stiles was a good man—a warrior's warrior.”

“Seyla,” Akela murmured reverently.

Sigurd still knew little of the events outside of the Thirteenth. Part of it was due to how recently he had been adopted, and part of it was due to the matter of his rank. Much of the material related to whatever was happening in the homeworlds seemed to be classified above his level. He did know, however, that Theta Galaxy's previous commanding officer had recently been slain in battle. The details were few, but the Wolves took great pride in the Green Keshik's actions on Tranquil. It was well-known that Stiles and all the warriors under his command had fought to their last breath in order to secure the Wolves' flight from the homeworlds. Their deaths were considered an honorable and glorious sacrifice for the future of the Clan.

A Galaxy could not remain leaderless, though. It did not take long for the Wolf Council to recreate the Green Keshik and appoint a new CO to helm what little remained of Theta Galaxy.

“So, have you come to pester me about requisitions?”

“Actually, before we get into logistics...”

“Yes?” The woman glanced up at Akela, then suddenly noticed that the Star Colonel was looking at Sigurd. “Come here,” she demanded.

Sigurd remained silent, but approached as ordered, and stood at attention in front of her. He did his best to appear confident and staid.

“What happened to Melli?” she murmured as she looked him up and down.

“Melli is just fine. I have not replaced my _coregn_ ,” Akela explained, referring to his aide. “This is Star Commander Sigurd.”

The Galaxy Commander shot up from her chair and leaned forward as she began to scrutinize him. He had become rather used to that, but this woman had a particularly harsh stare, as if she could uncover not only physical flaws but any blemish on his soul.

He noticed as she looked him over, that there was something very familiar about her. He recalled a similar feeling the first time he saw the Star Colonel, as if they had met before. The shape of her eyes, especially, triggered something in his memory, but it seemed just out of reach. Then, he noticed that her irises were the same kind of honey-gold as Akela's. They both had the same slightly aquiline profile, and although her close-cropped hair was streaked with silver, the original color was a light brunette quite similar to his. Those features, Sigurd decided, must have been the source of his déjà vu. He already knew why he recognized her voice.

 _Is she an ancestor of his?_ Sigurd wondered. _Or merely a relative?_

“Sigurd,” Akela said, “I would like to formally introduce you to our esteemed Galaxy Commander, Helina Kerensky.”

“So, this is the mutt you picked up on Traion,” she mused. Her study of him became very intense, and her posture stiffened.

Sigurd found his own muscles tensing in response. He had the distinct feeling that at any moment, Helina Kerensky might find something displeasing about him, and leap over the dais to throttle him. She had her own fair share of battle scars, which added to the sense that she might just be able to kill him barehanded, if she wanted. He stared back at her.

“That is a terrible pun, ovkhan.” Akela chuckled.

“What pun?” Her gaze turned back to the Star Colonel briefly. If she was indeed an ancestor of his, then Akela had gotten his sense of humor elsewhere. She sat back in her chair, relaxing only slightly. “I have read your reports, Star Colonel.” Although she addressed Akela, she looked at Sigurd while she spoke. “I agree with your conclusions.”

“Excellent.”

“However,” she continued, “I think a Trial is in order.”

Akela clasped his hands behind his back, and frowned. “He has already taken his Blooding. He fought according to zellbrigen, and earned two kills. You received my full report, ovkhan, _quineg?_ ”

“Aff, I did. And I specifically recall that you used subpowered weapons and training munitions for the Trial.”

“Upon _your_ approval, ovkhan.”

“I agree that it was a suitable choice, given your Cluster's situation at the time. But we are not the Diamond Sharks. We do things _properly_. Now that you will be on Weingarten for a while, I say that it is appropriate to give this one a re-test under standard procedures.” She turned to the abtakha warrior. “What have you to say, Sigurd Wolf?”

“I appreciate the opportunity you are allowing me, Galaxy Commander.” Truthfully, he did not appreciate it, but he was not about to say so.

“Do not be so quick to thank me. Keep in mind our statute on ranks,” she grumbled as she stood. Helina Kerensky made her way to the door. As she left, Sigurd thought he heard her give a mutter of, “ _Freebirth_.”

Both he and Akela watched the door for a moment, afterward. “She is the one who told you to kill me,” Sigurd noted, once she was certainly gone.

Akela smirked. “I wondered when you were going to bring that up.” His smirk changed then into a more gentle smile. “Did I not promise to reward your trust? Helina wanted you dead, and you are not dead. I have kept my _rede_ , and I will continue to do so.”

To a Clansman, a _rede_ was much more than a promise. It rested on one's word, one's honor. Sigurd was surprised that Akela considered the brief words he had spoken during the adoption ceremony important enough to constitute such an oath.

“What was the statute the Galaxy Commander mentioned?”

The Star Colonel sighed. “A decree by Khan Ward, which the Council has supported. After the debacle with... _him_... it was decided to place a cap on rank for all freeborn _abtakha_.” From the way Akela spoke, it was immediately clear that he was referring to Phelan Kell.

“I did not bring it up before,” he continued, “because I did not wish to hinder your ambition. However, I suppose it is only right that you know. The highest rank you will be permitted to earn is that of Star Captain. Nor are freeborn warriors allowed to compete for bloodnames, any longer. Personally, I do not support these statutes, but that is the minority opinion. I am in no position to refute the Council's will.”

Sigurd thought for a moment. “You are a Warden, quiaff?”

Akela looked startled, then laughed. “A Warden? Neg!” He shook his head. “No, I simply favor pragmatism in this regard.”

“Pragmatism, ovkhan?”

“We need warriors. The Harvest Trials helped bolster our numbers, but that was a one-time occurrence and gave us individuals, not legacies. A warrior's ultimate worth is in their genes. You live for the Clan, you die for the Clan, your contribution ends. But win a _bloodname_...”

“And your usefulness continues through your offspring,” Sigurd finished.

“Precisely. Star Captain Julian, for example, is skilled and competent. And he is a true _Wolf_ , as loyal as they come. The Carns should be glad to count him among their number, but he will never be allowed to contribute. Even the hidebound Falcons allowed one of their freeborn warriors to compete for a bloodname.

“So here we are, standing in a field of wheat, and complaining that we have no quillar for our bread. All because one man's treachery has blinded us.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd makes a gamble.

Chapter 29

 

The mournful sighing of a violin drifted through the halls of the barracks. The song was a little quicker and more ardent than he remembered, but Sigurd recognized it instantly.

“Ochi chernye,” he sang along softly, “ochi strastnye...” Although he did not speak a word of Russian, he knew all the lyrics of this song by heart. Sigurd let his voice trail off, and the rest of the words echoed through his mind in the gentle, languid voice he was accustomed to hearing.

_Ochi zhguchie i prekrasnye._  
Kak lyublyu ya vas. Kak boyus' ya vas.  
Znat' uvidel vas ya v nedobryi chas. 

After a moment, he realized the music was coming from Gunnar's quarters. He stopped at the door, which stood ajar, and rapped his knuckles against the door frame lightly.

There was a screech of bow against strings, and the music stopped abruptly. “ _What?!_ ” Gunnar thundered as he threw open the door. He blanched upon seeing Sigurd, and quickly tried to correct himself as he lowered his voice back to a normal volume. “That is— _what_ can I do for you...?” Grudgingly, he added, “Ovkhan.”

Sigurd noticed that, as usual, the MechWarrior had not called him by his rank. Given the choice, Gunnar would likely prefer to gnaw off his own arm than show Sigurd a milligram more respect than required.

“I just came by to speak with you a moment.” Looking over Gunnar's shoulder, he could see Lorna sitting on the edge of the bunk next to a violin. “I see you are busy, though.”

The Star Captain stood and eased herself through the door, past her sibkin. “I was just about to leave,” she said cordially. She gave Sigurd a brief nod, then disappeared down the hall.

Gunnar sulked back into his room, not bothering to close the door, and picked up the violin. He nestled it onto his shoulder, turning his back to Sigurd, then took the bow in his other hand. He resumed playing, albeit much softer.

“You will not mind if I continue.” While probably meant as a question, his words came out as an order.

“Not at all.” Sigurd stepped through the doorway and looked around curiously.

Most warriors seemed disinclined towards material things, but this man's quarters were minimalist almost to the point of absurdity. Its entire contents were the bed, a small lock box, and the violin's case. Sigurd wondered if Gunnar even slept in the bed, or if he just slept standing up to maintain this tidiness.

By this time, the MechWarrior had become reabsorbed in his playing. His posture was relaxed and he seemed less apt to break something. Perhaps that was why his room was so bare.

“I would not have guessed you were so musically-inclined,” Sigurd remarked.

“Mm-hmph,” the other man grunted. “What of it?”

“Nothing, really. It just... You are very good.”

Gunnar's playing slowed for an instant. Sounding a little confused, he replied, “Thank you.”

“I have not heard _Ochi Chernye_ in a very long time.”

“You know this song, quiaff? I cannot read the words.”

“Aff. I learnt it from my—” Sigurd stopped himself short of saying “mother.” He did not want to rile up the trueborn with allusions to natural birth, just when they were speaking civilly for the first time. “I learnt it as a child. I know the song is rather sad, but... it brings back pleasant memories.”

Gunnar turned back to face him and shrugged. The gesture was somewhat stifled by his playing. “It is something different. I was tired of Katyushan Baroque.”

Sigurd felt rather out of his depth in this conversation, having such little exposure to Clan arts, and decided to change the subject. Perhaps now would be a good time to get some answers to the questions that had been rattling around in his head.

“What you can tell me about Akela Kerensky?”

“The Star Colonel?”

“Is there another Akela Kerensky?”

The MechWarrior looked thoughtful for a moment. “I do not believe so.”

That was the maddening thing about talking to Gunnar. He took everything so literally. “What do you know about him?”

“In, uh, what regard? I imagine whatever you want to know can be found in our, erm, records.” The pauses leapt out at Sigurd immediately. Gunnar was damnably cocksure about everything. He did not often hesitate like this.

“The records are sealed.” Sigurd moved over and sat down on the edge of the MechWarrior's bunk to better communicate that he was not leaving without a reply. “I would like to know what Akela Kerensky did before this. What was his rank? His assignment?”

The other man groaned. “I do not know.” He stopped playing and sighed heavily. “About a month after Teresa Sender died, we fought on Steelton. Zander had been our acting CO, but the Keshik felt he could not handle the Cluster. We retreated from the Horses' line, and Akela Kerensky arrived in February to take command.”

“And no one knows anything about him?”

Gunnar shrugged. “Star Captain Sradac might. Her Elementals arrived with him. They seem close,” he observed. “Why are you so interested in knowing this? If I may ask, that is.”

“He is... different than the rest of us.” The last word, he used deliberately. “I just want to understand why.”

“Lorna seems to be the only one with any idea.”

“Oh?”

“You heard what she called him.” Gunnar frowned and turned away, abruptly. He began to play to yet another folk song.

Sigurd propped his chin up on his fist, and fell into silence for a moment, mentally replaying the conversations he had with Lorna. Then he remembered. She had once called their commander a “watchdog,” but perhaps she had not said it as an idle metaphor. Perhaps, she was referring to the intelligence-gathering branch of the Wolf touman1, the _Clan_ _Watch_.

 

* * * * *

 

_Whether he was a spy or not, Akela knows something. He has always been tight-lipped about why he wanted me as a warrior. I need to find out what he knows, before it gets me killed._

Sigurd felt a spark travel through his nerves and his heart-rate quickened slightly. There was a faint pull on his body from the deeper parts of his mind, steeling him for the confrontation. He reached the door of Akela's Weingarten office, and stopped for a moment to mentally review his plan, once more. He knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

Sigurd stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Star Colonel.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I wish to speak with you, if you have some time.”

Akela looked up from his computer for a moment. “Certainly.” He leaned back in chair and laced his fingers together.

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted,” Akela replied, waving one hand dismissively, “for as long as we both shall live. I have never been much for formality. Now, what is on your mind?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I feel that you have not been entirely honest with me.”

“Oh?”

“There is something—some information—that you are keeping from me.”

“Aff.” Akela furrowed his brow. “Of course, there is. You are only a Star Commander. You are not permitted to know all the things that I know.”

“I mean... you are withholding something about _me_.”

The Star Colonel grinned broadly, showing his unusually sharp canines. “Really?” He propped his elbows up on his desk and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “And what might it be?”

“That is what I am here to ask you.”

Akela sighed. “I will tell you when I feel you should know. You are a Clan warrior. You should understand that, _quiaff?_ Have some patience. Trust me.”

Sigurd clenched his fists. _I have let you lead me around long enough. No more._ “Star Colonel, I challenge you to a Trial of Possession.”

“ _For...?_ ” His eyebrows rose, but he seemed more bemused than surprised.

“For information. I want to know why you chose me. Why you made me abtakha.”

“You made yourself abtakha. You earned that.”

“My challenge stands,” he insisted. “With what forces do you defend?”

Akela chuckled. “Very well. If that is how you want it, Sigurd... I accept your challenge. I bid myself, unaugmented and unarmed.”

Sigurd frowned. “Where shall we fight? The athletic center?”

“Neg, I see no need for that.” He stood and began clearing his desk of the handful of ornaments decorating it. Akela pushed the guest chair back behind it, then walked around to the other side. “Here and now will do just fine.”

“Bargained well and done,” Sigurd agreed, as they each set their knives aside.

“Bargained well and done.”

The first strike happened like a flash, without warning or hesitation. Akela was not a huge man, but he was larger than Sigurd, and swift for his size. Sigurd brought his arm to deflect the punch, too slowly, and felt the force of the blow ripple through his muscles.

Akela was not holding back. Sigurd did not know why he had expected anything different from his commander. Adrenaline filled his veins, and he countered at the same time that he processed this information. Despite the calm facade, Akela was as perfectly willing to kill as any other Clan warrior.

Sigurd was aware of his own fist impacting Akela's ribs. By the time that happened, he was already bringing his left arm up for an elbow strike. Akela kicked him in the thigh, forcing him back, and he missed. He gathered his senses and circled around the other man, readying himself for the next round. Sigurd made a few starts at an attack, only to find that Akela was already out of his reach by the time he struck—or closing in on him, instead. They traded a few kicks to one another's legs. He landed a glancing blow to Akela's shin, and Akela drilled one foot into the outside of his left thigh.

The standoff did not last long. Akela sprinted forward, closing the distance between them. Sigurd blocked a punch aimed for his head, then immediately moved to grapple, in hopes he could use Akela's greater size against him. He took hold of the Star Colonel's uniform, but Akela grabbed his wrists. The Star Colonel turned, moving Sigurd with him, and slammed him into the wall. Sigurd immediately brought one leg up and kicked outwards, catching Akela in the midsection. It did nothing to stop him.

Sigurd raised one arm to shield his head, and struck with the other, landing the heel of his palm against Akela's nose but not quite breaking it. The damage was enough to cause the other man to relent for a moment, and Sigurd used that instant to slip away. He withdrew further this time than he had the last. He was making no progress, and Akela's strikes were starting to burn his muscles. If he attacked, he had little chance to evade; if he evaded, he had little chance to hit.

 _I am being too reactive,_ Sigurd chided himself. _I have to make him react to_ me. _Every hit must count. I cannot simply wear him down, like Gunnar._

With these things in mind, he feinted in one direction, then quickly closed in the other. Akela brought his hands up to catch him, but Sigurd ducked aside and slammed his knee into the other man's ribs. His other foot quickly drilled into the inside of Akela's right leg. That put the Clansman off balance, and created a brief opening while he tried to counter Sigurd's attack. Rather than punching, Sigurd folded his hand flat, like a knife blade, and jabbed it repeatedly into Akela's midsection. The snarl on the man's face revealed that the strikes were starting to have an effect.

Then suddenly, Akela grinned. With blood trickling down his face from the earlier hits, his expression seemed particularly malevolent. While Sigurd moved forward, Akela grabbed his arm and the collar of his shirt, then sank to the floor. As he landed, he planted one foot in Sigurd's stomach, and vaulted him up and over in a sacrifice throw. Sigurd had only enough time to curl his head in towards his chest, to prevent bouncing his skull off the floor upon landing.

When things stopped spinning, Sigurd found himself looking up at the ceiling. Before he could get up or even catch his breath, Akela spun around and grappled him into a submission hold. Sigurd struggled wildly, and used what little range of motion he had in such a position to continue striking Akela.

The Clansman ignored his ineffectual hits. “Forgive my harshness, Star Commander, but you must learn from your mistakes.”

“My only mistake,” panted Sigurd as he tried to fight his way out of the hold, “was trusting you.”

“No.” Akela wrapped one arm around Sigurd's neck for a choke. “Your mistake was not trusting me _enough_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1touman, _n._ (from Mongolian _tumen_ ): The fighting arm of a Clan; the sum of its martial assets.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd recalculates.

Chapter 30 

 

Sigurd gasped as he awoke, surprised to find himself in his quarters. His back ached fiercely where Akela had thrown him to the floor, but nothing felt broken. He spread his fingers, then flexed his toes inside his boots to ensure that his spine was not damaged. Everything moved properly, which was a good sign. There was an odd scent in the air, though: acrid and smokey. With a groan, he rolled over onto his side to get out of bed.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. About time you woke up.” Matthew sat on the floor next to his bed, taking a long drag from a cigarette. He glanced back at Sigurd, and made a tight-lipped expression somewhere between a suppressed smile and a grimace. “How're ya feelin'?”

 _Like I was run over by a salvage track,_ Sigurd thought. Aloud, he muttered, “I will be fine.”

“You're such a liar,” Matthew said, chuckling, and took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Stop being so insolent.”

The bondsman shrugged.

“And stop smoking in here,” Sigurd growled. “Why are you in my room?”

He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stomped it out. “Didn't have anything better to do. Figured I might as well hang out here, 'til you came 'round.”

“Hmph.” With some effort, Sigurd sat up completely straight, and began feeling his own ribs. None of them seemed broken.

“The medtechs already looked you over. Everything checked out okay.” Matthew stood and smirked. “Oh, you might want to, uh...” He reached up, made a quick swipe at Sigurd's forehead, and pulled off a square piece of adhesive.

Sigurd leaned back and rubbed his skin, glaring.

“Sedative patch,” Matthew explained. He sat down on the foot of the bed and drummed his fingers on the frame. “So, what now?”

“Now,” Sigurd muttered, turning towards him, “you leave.” He pressed his foot to Matthew's hip and pushed him off the bed. “You cannot simply enter my quarters as you like.”

“Oof!” The bondsman grunted, but the awkward fall did no real damage. He stood up and frowned. “That was uncalled for. Guess I'd be feelin' a bit mardy, too, in your position. What happened, anyway?”

Sigurd laid down on the bed. He tried to make it look like an act of nonchalance, but the fact was, sitting up made the pain in his back worse. “It is a matter between warriors. Therefore, it is none of your concern, bondsman.”

He put his hands up to his face, sighing, then slid them back through his hair. He had things to do, but now that he was supine, he was not sure he could get up again. A gravity well seemed to have developed directly under his bed.

“Say...” Matthew began, his voice faltering a little. “I've been meanin' to ask you about something.”

Sigurd turned his head toward Matthew, with a critical frown. “What?”

“I... Well, that is—” The other man looked back over his shoulder, and fell suddenly silent as if whatever he had been grappling with had suddenly slipped away. He cast his gaze to the floor and turned his back to Sigurd. “D'you still speak that weird dialect of yours?” he asked, with a forced nonchalance.

“Creole,” Sigurd corrected.

“Yeah, sure. You still speak it?” he asked again. “Say something.”

Sigurd glowered. He was not in the mood for this, but maybe a little more carrot and a little less stick would convince Matthew to shape up. “ _Was du willst mir spreche?_ ”

“Doesn't matter. I just wanted to hear it.” He grinned. “Your accent is so fuckin' adorable. Reminds me of my _Oma_ 1.”

“What?” Sigurd sputtered.

“Yeah, didn't I ever tell you that? It's your vowels. And let's not forget your vocabulary! You sound so delightfully old-timey when you talk about technical stuff.”

“I do _not_ ,” he grumbled. He willed enough energy into his muscles to sit up once more. “I am done playing this game with you. Make yourself useful—elsewhere.”

Matthew shook his head as he walked to the door. “Didn't you used to have a sense of humor? Or did you have it surgically removed, so they could fit in the stick?”

“ _Fick du._ ”

The other man chuckled. “ _Fick dich,_ ” Matthew retorted, emphasizing the pronoun. “At least get that one fuckin' right.”

Sigurd glared at the door as Matthew disappeared. As soon as the bondsman was gone, he collapsed back onto the bed and let a weak groan escape his lips. _I feel like an idiot. All that training with Mira, and Akela still got the best of me. I should have waited for a better opportunity to challenge him_.

There was nothing he could do about it for the moment, though. He rolled out of bed wearily, and began to disrobe. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that his back had turned an interesting shade of purple. He realized that his thighs, lower legs and midsection were all bruised, as well, but they hurt less. Someone had left a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers and some cold packs on the small table beside his bed. He locked his door, then laid down (on his stomach this time) and draped the cold packs over his back where it felt most swollen. Some sleep might help things, if he could sleep.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that in being defeated, he had not only lost his chance to find out what Akela Kerensky was keeping from him, but he had lost the right to challenge again. Clan law was structured such that one party could not repeatedly Trial over the same matter, and thereby win simply through exhausting their opponent.

Now, he had to operate on Akela's time table. More worrisome still, was the matter that he had revealed his own suspicions. From this point forward, finding out anything would be difficult.

 _Although, Akela did seem to expect that I knew something. He almost seemed... pleased about that._ Sigurd frowned and closed his eyes. _He seems pleased about nearly everything, though._

 

* * * * *

 

When he had finally gotten a bit of rest and his back felt a little less stiff and swollen, Sigurd made his way down to Akela's office. He did not plan to discuss his failed Trial of Possession against the Star Colonel. Once a Trial was concluded, the matter was closed. He had come to appreciate that aspect of Clan society, though. It was something of a relief that what was done, was done. He needed now to find out what arrangements Helina Kerensky had made for his re-test. Hopefully, there would be enough time for his back to heal, first. He worried the pain would make his performance suffer. As it was, he could pilot, but sitting in a cramped cockpit would make things worse.

 _I got ahead of myself. I really should have waited longer._ He sighed. It was no matter, now.

Sigurd knocked on the door, and a female voice answered.

“Enter.”

He hesitated, then stepped inside. Akela was not present; a young warrior sat in the Star Colonel's chair. Her hair was cut in a careless bob that came to her jaw, and tucked behind her ear on one side, revealing her shaved temples. She did not so much as glance up at him, but instead picked up a little carved wolf figurine from Akela's desk.

“Star Commander Melli.” He knew the name of Akela's aide, but had no interaction with her since the time she had given him death glares while he shaved. They had both avoided one another.

“Do you require assistance?” she asked, again not bothering to look at him.

He arched his eyebrows a little, pondering that she seemed to have taken over Akela's office. “I was hoping to speak with the Star Colonel about something.”

“He is out.”

“Out?”

“Aff. He is on medical leave.”

Sigurd bit his lower lip in order to suppress a smile. _You won, ovkhan, but it looks like I made you pay for it._ “Do you know when he will return?”

“Neg. I suppose I can take a message for him, though.”

“That will not be necessary. It is not terribly urgent.” He trusted she would relay his questions, but he did not think she needed to know his business. If possible, he wanted to keep the rest of the Cluster from getting wind of the fact that he was being forced to re-test. He turned to leave.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Melli leaned back in the chair. She smiled, but it was not a true smile; the expression was a forced imitation. “Your Trial of Position will take place one week from today.”

“How gracious of you to inform me.”

Melli turned the wooden figure around in her hands, examining it with distaste. It was rather crudely made. “You are permitted to choose your BattleMech, but you must select a standard configuration. Freebirths are not allowed custom machines.” She looked up. “And be aware: the Galaxy Commander will not go easy on you.”

“I should hope not.” He ignored the slur, and departed.

While he had been given a short reprieve to recover from his injuries, his subordinates had no such break. They would probably be in the athletic center, training with the rest of the Binary. Sigurd grabbed a parka as he headed outside. He stopped at the steps of the barracks for a moment to look around the complex, and enjoy the crisp, cool air. It was a little dark out, overcast and nearing sunset. He took as deep a breath as his sore muscles would allow, sucking the winter air into his lungs, and pulled up the collar of his coat.

Sigurd rounded the corner of the barracks and found himself suddenly colliding with another body—Akela. He grunted and stumbled back. The other man knelt down to pick up the datapad he had dropped.

“Star Colonel, my apologies, I—”

“Sorry, warrior.” He looked up at Sigurd. His face and voice were similar—disconcertingly similar—to the Star Colonel's, but he had no scar and his features were a little softer. The man was clean-shaven, as well. “I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else,” not-Akela said.

Sigurd took another step back, a little unnerved. “So I have.”

The man looked back at him curiously and offered an appeasing smile. “Forgive me for running into you, warrior.”

He felt a shiver as he watched the man leave. _How strange..._ Sigurd shoved his hands into his coat pockets and quickened his pace to the athletic center.

 

 

“You look distressed,” Lorna observed.

“Do I?” Sigurd brushed some of the snow from his hair and hung up his coat. He shook his head. “I just had a rather peculiar encounter, that is all.”

“You are an odd one, Star Commander.”

“So you have told me, ovkhan.”

He had avoided her for some time after their liaison. Every time she looked at him, his scars seemed to burn, and he thought of the alien sensation of her hands on his body. Fortunately, the trip from Salt Lick had helped him clear his head. What was done was done. As long as he focused on building his relationship with Lorna as a comrade, he felt no further discomfort around her. He watched as the warriors of both Stars ran laps around the indoor track.

“How is everyone faring?”

“Decently, for the most part. To start, we did round-robin sparring matches. Now they are doing a kilometer run.” Lorna looked down at her stop watch. “Irene is lagging, but the others are keeping pace.”

Sigurd nodded, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a comfortable posture. “How did the sparring go?”

“Quite well. Irene and Alger's matches were good. Gunnar had only had one loss.” She smiled then, and Sigurd did not bother to ask who had beaten the MechWarrior. “Do you think you will be ready for your Trial?”

He muttered a half-chuckle. “I see everyone knows about that, already. Scuttlebutt travels quickly here, quiaff?” Sigurd shook his head. “Yes, I will be ready.”

Lorna put her hands on her hips and looked back at him. “You did it once. You can do it again.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me, Star Captain.”

She merely nodded. “After your Trial is over, and the matter of organization is settled once and for all, we should receive some replacement units.”

“That is good to hear. That reminds me—how is Breslen?”

She sighed. “Not so well. He is going to recover, but it will take a long time for his ankle to heal. I think the Star Colonel will rotate him out while we have the opportunity to replace him. He is a good warrior, but until he can pilot again, he would only be dead weight.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I do not know. He will remain a warrior, though. I am sure of that. It takes a much more serious injury than that to force a MechWarrior into retirement.”

Sigurd pulled one of his arms across his chest to stretch. He did not want to look completely idle in front of his Starmates. “It seems strange to me that Clan warriors retire at all.”

“Most do not,” Lorna expounded. “Most die. Either they are killed in battle before they are old enough to retire, or they go to a solahma unit so that they can die before old age claims them. I hear that in the InnerSphere, MechWarriors retire more often. I hear they remain pilots much longer, too.”

“That is true,” he agreed, stretching his other arm. “Thirty is considered to be one's prime, in most militaries. An InnerSphere MechWarrior may be willing to fight to their death, but most would prefer not to do so.”

“They fear death?”

“Aff, many do.”

“Do you?”

“I did. Once.”

She smiled a little. “You do not seem very Sphere-like.”

Coming from Lorna, he took that as a high compliment. “Thank you, Star Captain.”

The other warriors soon finished their run, and jogged over to the lockers to cool down. They chatted and joked with one another as they stretched and toweled off. Irene and Alger had begun to warm to each other somewhat, and were presently discussing grappling techniques. Gunnar had still not made any effort to integrate with them. Instead, he was busy hanging around Cenek and Cora, bickering with the former and enjoying the latter's flirtations.

“MechWarrior,” Sigurd called to him. “I wish to speak with you for a moment.”

Gunnar glanced back, looking a little surprised to see his superior. He pulled himself away from Cora hesitantly. “You seem to have recovered quickly, ovkhan.” His tone was neutral, probably due to the fact that Lorna was standing nearby.

Sigurd answered with a nod, trying not to reveal his own present discomfort. “I was wondering what you think of the _Mad Dog_.”

“Ah, it is a very good 'Mech,” he replied. “I have piloted faster designs, but I like the amount of firepower the _Mad Dog_ has.”

“Most MechWarriors who pilot one like to lay down LRM fire, then hit their opponents with pulse lasers, quiaff?”

“Aff. Although I sometimes find it useful to do the opposite. The missiles have a slightly longer range, of course, but the large pulse lasers are more accurate. You can punch a hole in your opponent's armor with the beams, then save your ammo until you have a good missile lock.” He smacked one fist into the open palm of his other hand for emphasis, and grinned. “The medium pulses come in handy if you get in close, but I try to stay at-range, when I can.”

“Oh?”

“Well, the _Mad_ _Dog's_ armor is not as thick as, say, your _Stormcrow's_. It is not really meant to serve as a brawler.”

“What about the other configurations?”

“The C-configuration is just a walking gun.” The warrior waved his hand dismissively. “Too ammo-dependent.”

Sigurd arched his eyebrows a little. That seemed an odd analysis for a Clansman to make. Unlike Inner Sphere campaigns, Trials were typically short and fierce, which was perfectly suitable for ammunition-hungry designs.

“And the rest?”

Gunnar looked thoughtful for a moment. “The alt-B is a good all-around configuration. I think the Prime is definitely the best, though. You just have to keep an eye on the heat or you will roast yourself.”

“Volley fire, then.”

“Aff.”

Gunnar appeared to be enjoying the technical discussion, and that was starting to give Sigurd some pause about his next course of action. _Sorry, MechWarrior,_ he thought to himself.

“You seem very interested in the _Mad Dog_. Are you requisitioning a new 'Mech?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes...” Sigurd frowned. “I will be taking your _Mad Dog_ for my Trial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1. __Grandma,_ (German)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd gives an encore.

Chapter 31

 

Sigurd had some familiarity with the _Mad Dog_ after using it the simulators, but such practice was no substitute for actually piloting the machine. He took it out to the training grounds at every opportunity over the week, in order to acclimate himself. While any two OmniMechs tended to be more alike than BattleMechs, it still took time to feel truly comfortable with the a machine. The most striking difference between the _Mad Dog_ and _Stormcrow_ was the high placement of the former's cockpit. That alone had required him to completely readjust the way he led a target.

Despite many assurances that this was a temporary assignment, Gunnar remained incredibly sour about losing his _Mad Dog_. Alger and Irene merely observed the whole ordeal with keen interest, glad that Sigurd had not taken one of their 'Mechs. Truthfully, he had considered the _Glass Spider_ , but could not tolerate its low speed. Even the _Mad Dog_ felt a bit sluggish for his tastes, now.

Although he liked the _Stormcrow_ , its A-configuration was somewhat lacking in long-range firepower; the other configurations did not suit the coming battle, either. The _Mad Dog,_ however, provided precisely the kind of weapons mix he wanted for the Trial. In just a few minutes, he would find out if his strategy was sound.

He pulled his arms in close to his body as he climbed down through the hatch at the top of the _Mad Dog's_ head. It was a tight fit to get inside, but the cockpit was little roomier than the _Stormcrow's_. Just as he began to lock the hatch, someone called after him.

“Wait!”

He frowned and pulled himself halfway up through the hatch to find Gunnar perched on top of the _Mad Dog_. The Clansman scowled.

“MechWarrior...” Sigurd began, with a warning tone in his voice.

“Listen,” Gunnar said, cutting him off. “The right foot is still a little funny.”

He stared at his subordinate in confusion. “What?”

“The 'Mech's right foot. I know the technicians said they fixed the actuator months ago, but it feels weak to me,” he insisted hurriedly, rubbing his temples as if trying to remember crucial details. Gunnar frowned deeply and continued his impromptu lecture. “Remember that the center of gravity is higher on this 'Mech than on your _Stormcrow_. If you take a bad hit, you will have to work harder to keep it on its feet. Try to use its narrow profile to your advantage. Oh! And keep in mind that the _Mad Dog's_ arms have a lot of lateral rotation. If your opponent manages to flank, that can really save you.”

Sigurd stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why...? Why are you...?” He frowned. “You are helping me?”

Gunnar crossed his arms. “If you lose, that severely reduces the chances I will get the _Mad Dog_ back in approximately one piece.”

“You have grown attached to it, quiaff?”

The other man gave a scoffing grunt. “I find this OmniMech _suitable_. Try not to blow it up.” He scrambled up over the missile racks to the catwalk.

Sigurd lowered himself back down into the cockpit, still puzzled by Gunnar's behavior. He situated himself in the command couch, ran through the startup procedures, and then guided the _Mad Dog_ out of the hangar. He kept a close watch on the right foot, trying to feel for the flaw Gunnar had mentioned. Now that he was paying attention to it, the right ankle did indeed seem a bit loose.

The air outside the hangar was deeply frigid. It was snowing lightly, as it had every day during this too-short week. Unfortunately, the weather was not cold enough to have any noticeable effect on the _Mad Dog's_ heat dissipation. Sigurd took stock of the landscape as he cantered out to the Trial grounds.

Here and there, snowdrifts had formed as wind swept across the rolling hills, sculpting white dunes. Unlike the Circle of Equals on Traion, high walls closed off Weingarten's Circle from the outside world. The sole break in the wall was an opening just large enough to admit a single BattleMech.

Sigurd wet his lips with his tongue and pushed the _Mad Dog_ forward. _No thinking. Just doing,_ he assured himself.

As soon as he passed through the gate, a set of blast doors groaned closed behind him. Six 'Mechs stood in a semicircle against the walls at the far end of the Trial zone. They were out of weapons' range, but he could easily discern each chassis. He had not been told in advance which machines he would face, and hoped he had made a wise choice in selecting the _Mad Dog_ for this test.

_I will find out, soon enough._

Sigurd came to a halt, and looked out across the field to the assault 'Mech that stood directly opposite him. Out of all the 'Mechs, it alone was painted in the colors of the Keshik: grey at the top of the machine, fading down to white on the legs, in imitation of a wolf's fur. Crimson highlights completed the scheme, and made the _Gargoyle_ stand out against the slight haze of snow. The 80-ton Omni was an ugly machine with a mocking smile permanently molded onto its face. He grimaced back at it. The Galaxy Commander undoubtedly piloted that one.

His comm crackled suddenly. “Good hunting,” Akela's voice echoed in the cockpit, “trothkin.”

He glanced around, but saw no 'Mech he could identify as the Star Colonel's. He had not seen the man all week—not counting the encounter with Akela's doppelgänger. Before Sigurd could reply, another, harsher voice came over the comm.

“This is a call to Trial!” Helina Kerensky began. “Sigurd of the Wolves, the fires of combat will determine your fate, and reveal to us if you are, indeed, worthy of this Clan.” Her tone was stern and ever-so-slightly skeptical. “You will face three opponents in succession. To retain your assignment as a MechWarrior, you must fell one opposing BattleMech. To retain the rank of Star Commander, you must fell two opponents.

“Step forward, and begin your Trial.”

He did as he was bid, and a winter-camouflaged _Stormcrow_ stepped away from the wall to face him. Sigurd immediately punched the throttle. He had gotten to know that 'Mech's capabilities well in the time he had piloted one, himself. It could flank him easily, if he gave it half a chance. This one was the primary configuration, which mounted beam weaponry exclusively. While his large pulse lasers were ineffective past six hundred meters, its extended-range beams could tag him from over seven hundred. Worse yet, it was a heat-neutral design. He would have to get close—but not so close that it could slip behind him—and try to keep the pressure on it.

The _Stormcrow_ immediately charged ahead, then veered to his left and opened fire. Two blue beams sizzled through the cold air, hitting the wall behind him. Sigurd ignored the ineffectual blasts and concentrated on his own movements. As the _Mad Dog_ loped through the snow, the opposing 'Mech passed through his firing arc. Sigurd let loose with both of his large pulse lasers, conserving his missiles, as Gunnar had advised. One shot went wide, and the other sublimated part of a snowbank in front of the _Stormcrow's_ leg.

The medium 'Mech quickly jerked to the right, dashing past him. Sigurd slowed for an instant, trying to keep a bead on it, and the _Stormcrow_ twisted to face him. It slashed at him with both ER large lasers, and one of the beams ripped armor from his left arm. He returned fire, but the lighter 'Mech was already out of his reach. It hugged the wall, circling around past the gate, and hit him again, blistering chunks of armor from his left torso. From the corner of his eye, he could see the _Mad_ _Dog's_ HUD flash as ferro-fibrous peeled away from its bones. He needed to end this fight quickly. The longer it dragged on, the more armor the _Stormcrow_ would shear off his 'Mech. He still had no clues about what his next opponent would be, but he had the distinct impression that he would need every scrap of armor to withstand the second battle.

Another laser sizzled across his hull, bubbling his armor, and he cursed under his breath. Still, he tried to remain patient. He might be piloting Gunnar's 'Mech, but that did not mean he needed to emulate the hot-headed warrior. He kept his training in the forefront of his mind and let his instincts do the work.

_Keep moving. Keep shooting. Remain calm. Remain focused. Wait for the right opportunity— then strike._

As the two 'Mechs circled one another, Sigurd sharpened his turn and pushed the _Mad Dog_ to its top speed. He darted through a snowdrift, closing in on his opponent, then dragged his crosshairs over the _Stormcrow_. One shot merely grazed, but the other drew a glowing welt on the medium 'Mech's torso. The _Stormcrow_ fought back, stabbing at him fiercely. It landed another hit to his arm with its medium lasers, exposing the internals and threatening to clip off the whole limb. With the armor stripped from one arm, the OmniMech's balance changed. Sigurd kept his targeting reticule steady as he moved, leaning right in order to maintain a level aim. The trill of a missile lock soon sounded. He immediately depressed the trigger for the LRMs, and watched both racks empty into _Stormcrow_.

It stumbled back under the fusillade, and fired on him again, grazing the _Mad_ _Dog's_ torso and leg. Seeing it falter, Sigurd circled around and punished it further. He kept the _Mad Dog's_ torso facing directly towards it as often as possible, taking advantage of the 'Mech's narrow shape to present it with a smaller target. It continued to claw at him with its lasers, and Sigurd prepared a reprisal. His missiles had gored the lighter 'Mech, and ripped open a hole in its torso. He stabbed his pulse lasers into the wound, and felt the heat in the cockpit spike sharply.

Fortunately, his gamble paid off. Sparks burst from the hole in the _Stormcrow's_ side as slag oozed out in little rivulets. The 'Mech toppled, and the _Mad Dog's_ computer revealed that he had smashed his opponent's gyro.

The _Stormcrow_ landed on its side in one of the drifts, it cockpit buried in the snow. The medium Omni struggled ineffectually, and tried to prop itself up, to fire at him. Sigurd backed away, moving out of its weapons arc. Attacking a disabled opponent was permitted, if the prone 'Mech continued to fight, but doing so seemed like a waste. Sigurd only wanted to move on to the next phase.

 _Just stay down,_ he thought, watching it flail.

“Freebirth!” the other warrior screeched over the comm, as if in reply.

The _Stormcrow_ could no longer stand, but it pawed at the ground, trying to turn so it could face him or at least gets its cockpit out of the snowbank. Sigurd remained still and waited. The other Wolf MechWarrior was persistent, but the _Stormcrow_ was in no shape to move in the way its pilot was trying to direct it. Eventually, the struggle ceased, and the Omni powered down.

“Kill awarded,” the computer informed him.

Sigurd breathed a sigh of relief, glad his opponent had conceded defeat, and quickly brought his attention to the other 'Mechs that remained along the walls. With little hesitation, a nearby _Linebacker_ departed from its position, and trudged out into the field. Sigurd was already moving, and its ER PPC missed the narrow body of his _Mad Dog_. They were much closer to one another than he had been to the _Stormcrow_ at the Trial's outset. That suited his purpose, though.

The _Linebacker_ was quicker than his 'Mech, but he knew from observing Cenek's test that it had a dead zone in its firing arc. If he maneuvered directly behind it, the 65-ton 'Mech could simply flip its arms over and fire on him with both PPCs. If he managed to stay approximately in its five or seven o'clock, however, the Omni would be unable to hit him.

Their initial exchange of fire, as in most battles, was ineffective. Neither warrior so much as grazed the other's machine. About ten seconds later, that changed. Sigurd raked his lasers across the wide, sloped body of the _Linebacker_. The outer “skin” of its armor flaked away and the metal underneath began to liquify. As it rushed past him, a pack of streak missiles leapt from its shoulder-mounted launcher and ripped into his torso. Fist-sized pieces of ferro-fibrous burst from the _Mad_ _Dog's_ lower left side and his computer bleated a warning.

“Critical hit: LRM. Weapon: disabled.”

A flashing readout on the display revealed the problem. Part of the firing mechanism was jammed. The _Mad Dog's_ computer had shut down the entire launcher to prevent a potentially damaging misfire.

Sigurd snorted in irritation, and kept his crosshairs on the _Linebacker_ as it zigzagged among the snowdrifts. Leading his targeting reticule just a little bit ahead of it, he fired again. One of his lasers painted the _Linebacker's_ right side, charring the armor further. At the same time, Sigurd initiated the jettison sequence for the ammo in the damaged shoulder rack. As soon as he had disposed of the ordnance, he throttled up to give chase.

The _Linebacker_ passed in front of him again, and for an instant, seemed to present a perfect target. On the other side of it, however, stood Helina Kerensky's assault 'Mech. Sigurd held his fire, unwilling to risk drawing the Galaxy Commander into the battle with a stray shot.

That caution may have saved him from being torn apart by her _Gargoyle_ , but it gave the _Linebacker_ an opportunity to scorch his 'Mech with its PPCs. Armor flaked from the _Mad Dog's_ leg, and its damaged arm snapped off under the force of a second blast. The _Mad Dog_ stumbled. Sigurd pressed his back into the command couch and leaned on the control stick as he tried to regain the Omni's balance.

In the few seconds Sigurd was still, his foe closed in and began circling around him. One clean shot to his rear armor was all the _Linebacker_ would need to claim victory. Sigurd whipped the _Mad Dog's_ torso around and throttled up, trying to maneuver out of danger and into the other 'Mech's blind spot. One of his lasers nicked its armor, but the _Linebacker_ was only in his sights for a moment. He sharpened his turn to stay with it, and suddenly felt his balance shift. The _Mad Dog's_ right foot hit a patch of ice, and slipped out from under him.

His muscles tensed and he clenched his jaw as the 60-ton 'Mech teetered. That gave the _Linebacker_ just enough time to turn its guns back on him. It swiveled one arm towards him as it completed its turn, and sent its ER PPC rippling across the narrow torso of his OmniMech. The effect of the strike was like an uppercut to the jaw. A wave of neurohelmet feedback swept over Sigurd, blurring his vision. The _Linebacker_ followed up with its streak SRMs. The warheads peppered his armor, worsening the existing damage, and one of the missiles narrowly missed his cockpit as the force of the attacks sent the _Mad Dog_ crashing down.

The impact was enough to shake his bones and rattle his teeth in his skull. Sigurd found himself suddenly staring up at the grey Weingarten sky, unable to breathe. Whether it was momentary shock or if he had gotten the wind knocked out of him in the fall, he was not sure. He panted and managed to pull some of the cockpit's hot, dry air into his lungs as he grabbed for the control sticks. If he withheld his fire, he might be safe, depending on how sporting the other warrior felt. He was not certain, however, that he could get the _Mad Dog_ back on its feet.

Sigurd shifted its weight a little to the left, in order to free his right arm, and unloaded all of his remaining weapons. His sole large pulse laser splashed against the heavier 'Mech, peeling away armor. Some of his LRMs missed their mark in the desperate attack, but most of the unguided missiles hit simply because the _Linebacker_ had drawn near to him. The other 'Mech rocked on its feet as the salvo engulfed it, and Sigurd pulled back on the trigger again, pelting it with his lasers. Lying on his back, it was difficult to tell what kind of damage he had done. A loud crash shook the ground less than a second later, which gave him a clue.

Sigurd quickly began working to get up. He had not landed perfectly flat on his back, but partially on his right arm. Although the impact had jostled the servos loose, locking the limb, it had enough armor and internal strength to be useful. Carefully, he shifted the _Mad Dog's_ weight onto the arm, and drew its right leg up towards its body. That did the trick, and the OmniMech tilted onto its “nose,” just as he had hoped. He worked at the pedals until the _Mad Dog's_ bird-like feet gained purchase on the frozen ground. With a little persistence and footwork, he was able to stand. The computer, meanwhile, informed him of a second kill.

His opponent lay nearby, face-down in the snow. Smoke and steam wafted up from its blackened hull, and bits of ferro-glass littered the ground around it. From the scorch marks and melted armor, he concluded that his pulse laser had weakened the canopy framing and allowed a missile to rip through its cockpit.

He limped away from the fallen 'Mech, and looked back at the _Gargoyle_. The Galaxy Commander remained perfectly still. Sigurd carefully lowered his own machine into a crouch. Half of his weapons were gone, along with much of his armor. His next opponent would certainly be an assault 'Mech, and he did not count himself lucky enough to withstand that kind of onslaught. There was no point in fighting further. For another thing, he intended to return the _Mad Dog_ to its pilot in as few pieces as he could. Sigurd shut down its reactor.

Then, he waited. For what seemed like a very long time, the only noise was the wind whistling outside and the sound of metal groaning as it cooled. Finally, the radio crackled with Helina's voice.

“This Trial is ended.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Helina issues an order.

Chapter 32

 

The walk back to the hangar was a slow one. The _Mad_ _Dog's_ gyro was in good condition, but between the loss of a limb and armor on the 'Mech's left side and its touchy right ankle, keeping the 'Mech balanced was strenuous. As Sigurd guided the slim machine towards the repair racks, he noticed a figure pacing back and forth on the catwalk nearby.

Gunnar.

Sigurd maneuvered the _Mad_ _Dog_ back into place carefully, then waited as the technicians secured it. Once the 'Mech was finally in position, he shut it down, and took his time clambering out of it. His bruises were healing, but sitting in the small cockpit had done his back no favors. He climbed up to the catwalk stiffly, and Gunnar met him.

The MechWarrior looked up at the _Mad_ _Dog_ , then at him, and back to the OmniMech again, visibly distraught. He rubbed his chin anxiously as he scanned it.

“I was starting to think you were not coming back,” he muttered, his eyes still locked on the 'Mech. Gunnar began pacing back and forth again.

“You should be so fortunate,” Sigurd replied dryly. “The Galaxy Commander ordered my battleROM pulled for review, which took some time.”

Gunnar raised an eyebrow. “Why? They do not usually do that, unless...”

“I killed one of my opponents.”

“Purposefully?”

“Of course not,” he scoffed, “but that was what the Galaxy Commander wished to determine.”

The other man fell silent for a moment, resuming his study of the _Mad_ _Dog_. “Well?” he asked finally.

It was not difficult to guess the question. “Two kills.”

Gunnar heaved a sigh and visibly clenched his jaw. “Congratulations... ovkhan,” he muttered through gritted teeth. He looked up at the _Mad_ _Dog_ and sighed once more.

“It is not so bad. The techs should be able to put another arm on it, easily.”

“Hmph.”

“I will place a requisition for a new balance plate in the weak ankle.”

The warrior pressed his lips into a grim smile. His concern regarding the _Mad_ _Dog's_ right foot was vindicated.

Sigurd rolled his head from one side to the other, trying to work out a crick in his neck. “I am going to the gym. Care to spar with me?”

“Are you ordering me?”

“Just asking.”

“Then, _no_. While you were out playing in the snow, ovkhan, the rest of us were training. I have had enough sparring for one day.”

“Lorna has been pushing everyone hard, quiaff?”

“Neg. The Star Colonel took over, today.”

That was surprising to hear. “I thought he was out on medical leave.”

Gunnar sat down on the catwalk, letting his legs hang over the edge. “Apparently, he got better. Oh, that reminds me—Star Commander Melli came by, earlier. She said you are to report to the Galaxy Commander's office at 1900 hours.”

Sigurd glanced up at the clock over the hangar door. Just enough time to wash up and grab a bite to eat from the mess hall. Then he recalled that Matthew was assigned to help the cooks, lately. Running into his bondsman could make dinner a bigger diversion than he planned. Food could wait. He looked back at Gunnar and started to offer thanks for the notice, but then thought better of it. The MechWarrior would probably hate to be thanked for anything.

 

* * * * *

 

Helina Kerensky's office was not large, yet it still seemed to be twice the space she would have wanted or required. The room's contents were not arranged in a tight or claustrophobic manner; there was simply not much in it. While everything was neatly ordered, all the fixtures and even the desk had a thin layer of dust, which suggested that she did not spend much time here. The room was unadorned, save for the Wolf Clan flag on the back wall. Sigurd was not sure if the sparseness was merely because this was a Clan facility, or if the lack of décor reflected the Galaxy Commander's personal tastes. He had a feeling it was a bit of both.

“Tell me, abtakha, what do you think of your Star Colonel?”

Sigurd felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as Helina Kerensky paced around behind him.

“In what regard, ovkhan?” he asked carefully. The query caught him off-balance. He had expected her to discuss his Trial further, and began to wonder if this, too, was some kind of test.

She circled back in front of him and stood, hands clasped together behind her back. The way she carried herself was very much like the Star Colonel, which struck Sigurd as a little funny.

“I want to know what you think of his leadership.”

He searched her face as he tried to form an answer. There was a strong family resemblance between the two officers. While Akela's expressions typically hinted amusement, however, Helina seemed almost permanently displeased, as if the whole universe and all things in it were a grand disappointment to her. Keenly aware that he was probably high on the list of current disappointments, Sigurd continued to look straight ahead and kept his posture straight.

“I have no complaints or concerns about the Star Colonel's ability to lead.” He hesitated a little, and Helina was quick to sense it.

“You have permission to speak freely.”

A quick study of her face revealed she was sincere. “I have found no fault in Akela Kerensky as a commanding officer. I have been with the Clan only a short time, though, and a warrior for less time. Respectfully, I believe your time would be better spent speaking to other members of the Cluster. They know more than I.”

“That is true. You know very little, Sigurd Wolf,” she agreed, somewhat contemptuously. “But I like to be thorough. Tell me, what do you think of Akela Kerensky?”

Sigurd frowned. “I have answered that question, quineg?”

Helina stared back at him and her lips pressed into a thin line. “You told me what you think of the Star Colonel. Now, tell me what you think of the man.”

That was a very difficult question to answer. Even more difficult, was the question of how honest he should be with her. Sigurd had not forgotten that she had wanted him killed while he was still a bondsman. Akela had—somehow—protected him. Yet he was growing less convinced that the Star Colonel was truly an ally.

It occurred to him that being cooperative and forthcoming might net him a shred of favor in Helina's eyes, which he could certainly use. At the same time, he was leery of revealing how suspicious he had grown of Akela in recent weeks. His concerns about the Star Colonel were nebulous, at best. While he did not like the way he was being kept in the dark, he wondered if tipping off Helina to the Star Colonel's behavior was the wisest choice. There was no way to know what the consequences might be, or who was really on his side.

_Who can I trust? I trusted Ace, and he abandoned me. I trusted Emma, and she t_ _urned on_ _me._ Sigurd laughed inwardly. _Gunnar_ _may be_ _the most reliable person I have met. At least I know_ exactly _how he feels about me._

“Star Commander?”

“Ah, forgive me, ovkhan. I was just... thinking,” Sigurd replied. “Akela Kerensky strikes me as a warrior who is very concerned for this Clan. I think he tries to do what is best for the Wolves.”

“What makes you say this?”

“He works our Cluster hard and places everyone in the roles they are best suited for, regardless of our, ah, origins. I do not think he values the trueborn warriors over the freeborn warriors in our Cluster.” Although it could make the Star Colonel look weak in the eyes of a warrior like the Galaxy Commander, it was the truth, and he had resolved to be truthful. “The Star Colonel seems to judge us on our own merits.”

Helina looked him up and down. “This is why he took you as a bondsman, quiaff?”

“That is what he told me.”

“Is that the whole reason?”

“I cannot say, ovkhan.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“When he first captured me,” Sigurd began, “he said I was 'worth saving.' That is all he has said on the matter since then, ovkhan.” That was not quite all, but he did not know what to make of the Star Colonel's more cryptic assertions.

“You are being honest with me, quiaff?”

“Aff, ovkhan. It would be unClanlike to be otherwise.”

She laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, but Sigurd still felt unnerved by it. “That sounds like blasphemy, coming from you.”

“I assure you, ovkhan, it is not meant as such.”

Helina shook her head and sat down in the chair behind her unused desk. “Are you pleased to be here, Sigurd? To be a Wolf?”

“Aff,” he replied more swiftly than he expected. Then he added, “I do not think it matters, though, ovkhan. What I want is irrelevant. I merely serve the Clan.”

Helina motioned for him to sit. “You do not know much, Sigurd Wolf, but you seem to know enough. You are aware, I am sure, that I did not approve of Akela training you to become abtakha.” She laced her fingers together and leaned back in her chair. “When a bondsman is adopted into the Warrior Caste, the Clan Council must vote upon the matter. Did you ever wonder how an ex-mercenary _freebirth_ such yourself managed to secure enough votes to earn adoption into a Crusader Clan?”

He bit his lip. “Neg, ovkhan.” Sigurd looked down at the floor. Akela had made no mention of voting, only paperwork. He had never thought to look into the process further, and he felt foolish now for not doing so.

“Akela has some friends in the Council,” she said, “but not enough to pull this off by himself. I collected on some favors I was owed, and swung the vote in your favor.”

That was a worrisome revelation. “May I ask why, ovkhan?”

“I supported your adoption, so I could keep you where I can see you.” A grim smirk creased the corners of her mouth. “And to shine a light on the activities of my wayward bloodkin. Akela has become used to operating with little oversight. I am shortening his leash.”

_And you are using me to do_ _it_ _._ He did not care for being a pawn in someone else's game, but he hardly had a say in the matter.

“I know Akela well enough to see that he is planning something. I do not know what it is, but I think you will be the first to find out. When you do, you will report it to me. Do you understand this order, Star Commander?”

“Yes, ovkhan.” There was nothing else he could say.

“Let me be clear. Your combat skills are acceptable, but you are not the equal of Clan-born warriors. You will _never_ be,” Helina sneered. “That does not mean, however, that you are entirely without use.”

“Thank you, ovkhan.”

“Do not thank me,” she replied stiffly. “You are dismissed.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a troublemaker arrives.

Chapter 33

 

 _What an assignment. Spying on a spy._ Sigurd shook his head. Stealth was one thing, but espionage was quite another matter. He had trained his whole life as a warrior; this was simply not the sort of work he was cut out for. The very idea of it turned his stomach.

One of the things he had come to admire about the Clans was the honesty and directness they employed. Being ordered to spy—on his own superior, no less—seemed like a betrayal of those values. It seemed... unClanlike. Privately, Sigurd worried, too, that regarding everything around him with scrutiny and suspicion would fuel the paranoia he had combated previously: that eventually, he would start seeing monsters where there was only shadow.

Even so, orders were orders.

Fortunately, Helina Kerensky had only ordered him to observe and report on the Star Colonel's behavior. It was the simple, mundane kind of spying that did not make for very good trivids. The real trick of it, though, would be trying to ensure that Akela did not discover his activities.

Presently, his thoughts were interrupted by his Starmates' voices. Following the day's sim training and sparring, he had accompanied Irene and Alger on a short recreational hike. Gunnar, the current subject of conversation, had made excuses not to join them. The warrior said he wanted to practice his music, which everyone believed. They did not, however, believe that was the entire reason he declined.

“The rest of us have accepted our assignment. Gunnar needs to do so, as well. He is... he is acting unClanlike!” Alger insisted. That was a serious accusation to level.

Irene, on the other hand, did not seem too concerned. “Of _course_ he would rather stay at the base. With Breslen injured, he has Cora all to himself, lately. Lucky surat...”

“It is not just that. He continues to behave as if he is part of his old Star, and not this one. He acts as though he can hardly be bothered to join us for training.”

“Do not tell me you actually miss his company.”

“Not in the slightest. His attitude reflects badly on the rest of us, though.”

Both of the warriors stopped and turned back to Sigurd, expecting a verdict on the issue. He pursed his lips. “I will speak to Gunnar when we get back.”

He did not much care what—or whom—Gunnar was doing on his own time. As an officer, however, he was responsible for maintaining unit cohesion in his Star. He made a mental note to devise a training regimen that would annoy them all into working together more closely.

“This is such a dull planet,” Alger sighed as they crested a low hill. “Maybe we should have gone into the city, instead.”

“Whatever for?” asked Irene. The Merchant Caste had operations in the capital of Neuberlin, raking in profits from the planet's wine industry for the Clan, but there was very little in the city to interest warriors.

“Just to see. Stretch our legs, same as we are doing now. At least there would be something to look at besides snow.”

“There is plenty to see. As usual, you are simply not paying enough attention,” the older warrior chortled, and proceeded to point out several sets of animal tracks to her Starmate. Alger did not look terribly interested in that, but Irene seemed to be enjoying herself.

Eventually, Alger's competitive nature got the better of him. He began pointing out various animals and plants simply to prove that he could be as observant as his Starmate. Irene continued to one-up him. From there, the conversation between them turned from a discussion of observing nature, to the best and most efficient methods of stalking, capturing, and cooking said nature.

Sigurd, meanwhile, became absorbed in his own thoughts. Although they did not intend to be out long, they had each taken a rucksack full of supplies. It seemed best to be prepared, on the small chance that a winter storm kicked up, and the added weight was an easy means of working in some more exercise. What felt heaviest, though, was the small journal in the breast pocket of his coat.

He did not trust committing his observations about Akela to electronic format. There was no telling who could access such files, given that all electronic equipment was communal property. To avoid that problem, Sigurd had opted for a low-tech solution to record his findings. While bound books were museum relics, paper journals and notepads remained common enough that no one batted an eye when he picked one up from the commissary.

It was also a simple matter to keep others from actually reading it. He merely wrote in his native tongue. Even Matthew, who was fluent in German, had some trouble understanding the creole Sigurd spoke. It was certain that someone with the time and patience could decipher anything he wrote, but as long as he was inconspicuous, the mere effort of doing so would deter prying eyes.

Unfortunately, there had been no sign of Akela since yesterday. Star Commander Melli might know where he was, but Sigurd did not see that conversation going over well. He had already inquired once. Asking after the Star Colonel again without a good reason would probably seem suspicious.

For the time being, it was best to concentrate on documenting what he already knew. He began with his confrontation with Akela earlier in the week, and then his run-in with the man's apparent double. Thinking of that encounter made his skin crawl. He was not sure if the stranger's resemblance to Akela was relevant or mere coincidence, but he recorded it nonetheless. Sigurd tried to recall details about the man.

When he was young, his mother had often played a memory game with him. She would set out a few small items, give him a minute or so to look at them, and then cover them with a cloth. The challenge was to recall as many of the items and as many details about them as possible. As he grew older, the complexity of this game increased. The time shortened, the number of objects increased, and the length of time between looking at the set and being asked to recall it increased.

One of the rules of the game was that he never tell her what the objects were, but instead describe them. Rather than telling her one of the objects was a coin, for example, he would explain it as a metal disc, about three centimeters in diameter, with a numeral embossed on one side and artwork on the other.

Sigurd tried to think of this episode similarly. It was no use to describe the man he had seen as “like Akela, but not.” Much like the memory game, it was not up to him to determine the nature of what he had seen; Helina would do that. His task was only to provide raw data.

Unfortunately, the man had no visible identifying marks on his clothing. It was almost certain that he was a civilian, given his submissive response to their collision. A warrior would have reacted much more harshly. As he worked his way through the description of the man's appearance and personal effects, Sigurd remembered that he had dropped a datapad. He wished he had caught a better glimpse of it.

“Shall we keep going?”

Sigurd looked up to see his Starmates watching him expectantly.

“Neg. It will be mealtime once we return,” he replied, tucking the pencil and journal back into his breast pocket. “And we should not want to leave Gunnar without our company, quiaff?”

The other two smirked and nodded.

 

* * * * *

 

There were some new faces at the training grounds, the next morning. The first two stood with firm posture, gaze fixed straight ahead into nothingness while they waited. The third held himself in a way that suggested boredom, and looked around distractedly, watching the other personnel come and go. These were the warriors sent to replenish the Thirteenth's rolls, following the Cluster's previous losses. This put Elaine Sradac was in an incredibly foul mood. She needed another full Point of Elemental warriors, as well as two MechWarriors to fill out her 'Mech Star; she had received only one of the latter.

The Elemental Star Captain called over the first warrior, gave some harsh words, and then sent her new “steed” to join the rest of the herd. The second of the newcomers was Breslen's replacement, a sharp-featured woman who went to join Lorna. That left the bored fellow.

He was a dark, broadly-built man, who looked a bit short for an Elemental and a bit tall for a MechWarrior. His hair was styled into a short, messy sort of mohawk and dyed a deep red, (though it had been close-cropped and naturally dark in his dossier photo), and his uniform was somewhat unkempt. A tattoo encircled his right wrist, under his codex bracelet; upon closer inspection, Sigurd realized it was a series of interlocking gears.

The rest of Sigurd's Starmates quickly deduced that this man was meant to join them, and their posture became standoffish. Gunnar's body language was outright hostile. They did not need to see the newcomer's dossier to arrive at the obvious conclusion. The man's appearance, as likely intended, gave him away immediately.

_A freeborn._

Body modifications for aesthetic purposes, Sigurd had learned, were disfavored within the Warrior Caste. Good Wolves stood out with their skills and not their looks, he was assured. However, tattoos were popular with freeborn warriors, who often inked themselves with the symbol of their parents' caste. A small—but permanent—act of defiance against the trueborns. The gears indicated this man had come from a technician family.

Sigurd glanced down at the dossier on his datapad, and frowned as he read over it a second time. “MechWarrior Erhan, previously of the 2nd Wolf Guards Grenadiers.”

The warrior snapped a salute and approached. “Star Commander.” His accent was markedly different from the other Clansmen: short, peculiar vowels, and R's that disappeared into an “ah” sound. He offered a friendly smile.

“Your codex suggests you have a discipline problem,” Sigurd said, and did not return the smile. He continued scrolling through the man's file. “Several counts of insubordination. Unsanctioned fighting. Breaking zellbrigen. Refusing a direct order.”

Erhan cleared his throat. “If I may, ovkhan?”

“I have not given you permission to speak.” Sigurd lifted his head to look the tall man in the eye. “And yes, I can see you were cleared on the latter charge, following a Trial of Refusal against your superior officer.”

The warrior's smile faded into something just short of a scowl.

“Hm, what else? Engaging in frivolous Trials and... _arson_.” He put the datapad away. “Now, you may speak. Have you anything to say for your actions, MechWarrior?”

“The fire was accidental,” Erhan grumbled.

“Get in line with the others,” Sigurd instructed. “We will start with a kilometer run before training.”

 

 

Sigurd had noticed that Clan warriors, much like himself, did not enjoy being idle. If his Star was not given enough to do in a day, they became restless and felt neglected. His usual method of ensuring that they were working hard enough was to join them in every training activity. If he was not sufficiently tired at the end of it, then they certainly were not, either.

To suppress the tension created by the arrival of their newest comrade, he pushed them even harder. Despite the more stringent training regiment, all four of the warriors were performing well in the physical aspects of training. The trueborns were clearly eager to outpace Erhan, and prove their superiority. Even Irene, who had been sluggish on the kilometer runs, had found an extra burst of energy to finish under time. Erhan, for his part, made the others work for any gains they took, and even beat them at a few exercises.

Competition could be a powerful motivator, but Sigurd was leery of using that as a means to encourage their performance. He knew how quickly things could escalate from mere rivalry into something much more fatal. Already, he could tell the three trueborn warriors considered Erhan an interloper.

 _I wanted them to pull together. I got my wish,_ he thought grimly as they walked across the icy pathway from the athletic center. It would be a fine balancing act to keep them from trying to crush the freeborn MechWarrior, without appearing to play favorites.

He had cut their usual sparring matches from the schedule in favor of extra simulator training. Ever since Erhan's arrival, the trueborns had been eyeing the man like feral dogs waiting to pounce on a butcher's scraps. Allowing them to spar would not going to improve the situation.

Besides that, Sigurd was concerned with testing the Star's new composition. Erhan was assigned a Clan _Shadow_ _Hawk_ , which would add some welcome maneuverability to their unit. No one was terribly keen on simulator training, but there was no other option for the moment. Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_ was still undergoing repairs, and Sigurd did not wish to leave anyone out. It was important to see how they operated as a unit, and determine if they could follow orders properly.

As they left the athletic center, Sigurd noticed a figure cutting across the snow-covered grass toward them. This section of the base was mostly populated by warriors, who were all clad in winter camouflage. Matthew, dressed in a work uniform and an oversize parka, stood out easily.

Sigurd averted his gaze and balled his fists as he walked. He still wondered why he had not killed Matthew when he had the chance. While he would have liked to believe that he was above murder, that he was “better than that,” he was not so sure it was true. Not anymore.

Sometimes, as he fell asleep, a more rational part of his mind submitted that his anger was misplaced. When the nightmares returned, however, he could only hear the voice of the mist-bodied creature.

_This traitor should suffer, as you have._

__

“Hey!” Matthew called, waving to him.

__

He kept walking with the rest of the Star in tow, and the bondsman jogged to catch up.

__

“Hold up a minute, boss,” Matthew protested as he walked alongside them. Matthew glanced over his bondholder's shoulder at Gunnar, and flashed a grin. “Hey, sunshine.”

__

The warrior merely snarled in response.

__

Sigurd stopped and grabbed Matthew by the collar of his parka, pushing him back. “Whatever you want, bondsman, it can wait.”

__

“I'm just doing what they told me,” Matthew grumbled. He muttered something to himself, but its was too low and hurried for Sigurd to catch. There was little doubt, however, that it was obscene. “Some tech wanted me to run a datapad to you.”

__

“Give it here.”

__

Matthew fumbled through his coat pockets and finally produced the item.

__

“Now, leave,” Sigurd instructed, returning to the others.

__

The bondsman scowled, but refrained from speaking, which was probably for the best. Matthew shoved his hands into his pockets as he took a few steps back, then turned around, still looking back over his shoulder at Sigurd grumpily. He did not see the two MPs walking nearby.

__

Matthew collided with the leftmost of the pair, knocking her off her feet and losing his own balance in the process. He landed partially on top of her, stunned, but quickly tried to pick himself up. Unfortunately for both parties, he slipped on the icy path and fell on her again.

__

Enraged, the woman turned back on him like a snake. In a blur of motion, she maneuvered herself on top, and began punching him. Matthew tried to defend himself, landing a lucky blow that bloodied her nose.

__

“You freebirth surat!” she shrieked, redoubling her attack.

__

Sigurd processed everything that happened in quick order, but hesitated as he decided whether to intervene. Matthew was his bondsman, his responsibility. Matthew was also a thorn in his side, and seeing the man beaten a little was not unappealing. He was tempted to let this play out. The bondsman might even get away on his own, but it was doubtful. Matthew's hand-to-hand experience consisted of bar brawls against other drunk mercenaries, (from which Sigurd had always been the one to extract him), not sober—and angry—Clan warriors.

__

Sigurd heaved a sigh.

__

Before he could take a step, Erhan shoved past and darted over to the tussling pair. “Hey!” he barked.

__

The policewoman ignored him, intent on inflicting pain upon the bondsman. Erhan skidded up to them, sucker punched the aggressor, and dragged Matthew out from under her as she reeled back. The second MP jumped in then, tackling Erhan in reprisal. Big as he was, though, Erhan did not go down easily. Once she recovered, the first MP attacked him as well. It took both of them to put the freeborn man on the ground.

__

“Stop this!” Sigurd thundered, running over to the scene. The last thing he needed was another riot on his hands. He motioned for the rest of the Star to join him, and together, they began trying to separate the fighters from one another.

__


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pattern continues.

Chapter 34

 

Sigurd looked up as his newest Starmate stepped out of the infirmary. “I see that twenty-four hours of proper conduct was too much to expect from you, MechWarrior,” Sigurd mused, scrolling through the datapad Matthew had given him.

Erhan made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat and looked away. His injuries were minor, and the treatment had been quick. The medics had checked him over, applied something to staunch the bleeding at his lip and forehead, then sent him away. Fortunately, the two police officers involved in the fracas had not been badly hurt, either. It was uncertain what kind of injuries Matthew sustained; the bondsman had managed to slip away while Sigurd and the others broke up the fight.

“I have finished all the paperwork created by your stunt,” Sigurd continued. “Thankfully, I have smoothed things over with the MPs' superior. I am writing you up for assault.”

“ _Assault?_ ” Erhan bristled, briefly drawing himself into a more aggressive stance, before catching himself. “Permission to speak!”

“Granted.”

“That charge is ridiculous, Star Commander! I was acting in defense of another.”

“The charge will stand. Do you wish to invoke surkai?”

Erhan balled his fists. “Permission to speak _freely_.”

Sigurd frowned, considering the request. The hallway was hardly a private location, but there was no one else around. “Aff.” He could always rescind the privilege, if need be.

“I will not invoke surkai,” he fumed. His vowels became more muddled as he spoke. “I _refuse_ to apologize for protecting one of our civilians. The MP was going to kill that man!”

That actually made Sigurd laugh. “Him? A _civilian?_ ” He shook his head. “Bondsman Matthew is no civilian. He is a _mercenary_ , taken as isorla in our Cluster's last engagement.”

Erhan looked surprised and slightly chastened by this revelation, but the expression quickly faded. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn't matter to me. He's a bondsman, now. That makes him a civilian.”

Despite some subtle shows of rebellion, the other freeborns of the Thirteenth always used proper warrior speech. Star Captain Julian, especially, did not tolerate such sloppiness. Sigurd had worked to rid himself of using contractions, as well. Now that he had, hearing it from this warrior grated on his nerves.

“Speak _properly_ ,” he instructed, trying to affect some of the brassy, nasal quality of a standard Clan accent as he spoke. It was difficult to maintain such a sharp and very _English_ accent for long, but he felt that it lent a little more authority to his voice.

“Aff, ovkhan,” the MechWarrior replied grudgingly. Erhan paced back and forth, then stopped and looked around the hall. Confirming that they were alone, he turned back to Sigurd and lowered his voice. “That won't— _will not_ do you any good, you know. Speaking that way.”

“I said you could speak freely, MechWarrior. I did not say you could lecture me,” Sigurd retorted, skimming through the datapad files. The material was nothing urgent—just a notification of the repairs scheduled for Gunnar's _Mad Dog,_ and the progress on his own _Stormcrow_. If Matthew had simply brought it to him at another time, this mess would likely never have happened. “I do not understand what you are trying to suggest, though.”

“I'm saying that you aren't one of them,” Erhan hissed. “Maybe you do not understand, ovkhan, because you are abtakha. You can talk like them, dress like them, act like them—whatever you like. But the trueborns will _never_ accept you. They will never forget what you are.”

Sigurd looked down at the datapad, feigning concentration. He knew what Erhan said was true. _What choice do I have? They barely respect me, as it is._ Aloud he asked, “What would you have me do, MechWarrior? Remind me, how has your rebellious behavior helped _you?_ ”

Erhan set his jaw and looked back at Sigurd. “I am a good warrior, Star Commander. I will prove that to you.”

“I would be glad if you could. Considering your record, I am skeptical.”

Erhan paced again and unconsciously rubbed at his wrist, tracing his fingers first over his codex bracelet, and then over the outlines of his tattoo. “The strikes on my record—well, _most_ of those happened a long time ago. I was angry. I— Nevermind.” He shook his head. “I know you will have to be especially strict with with me, since we are both freeborn. I accept that.”

As Sigurd began to reply, he caught a glimpse of movement down at the other end of the corridor. The Star Colonel was approaching. “You are dismissed, Erhan. We will meet the others for sim training in thirty minutes.”

Erhan looked ready to speak further, but the Star Colonel's arrival seemed to change his mind. He jogged off down the hall.

“I would ask how things are going with your new warrior,” Akela said as he strolled up, “but I have already seen the paperwork.”

“You look well, Star Colonel.”

The other man frowned, but only for a moment. “Flesh wounds,” he replied with a characteristic grin. “You did well in your Trial, by the way. Since you have passed the re-test, I think the Galaxy Commander will leave you alone. For the most part.”

 _If only._ Sigurd tried not to let his expressions betray him, keenly aware of the journal in his coat pocket. He looked forward to burning it, when this task was complete. That was always a satisfying way to dispose of something. “I imagine she will never approve of me,” he murmured.

Akela shrugged. “Probably not. I think she is mostly angry with me, though.”

“Should I ask why?”

Another shrug and a resigned smile. “She is always angry with me.”

“I have been wondering about something,” Sigurd began, “though I am not sure if it is considered improper to ask...”

“I try to be difficult to offend, and you are still learning Clan ways. Ask.”

“You and the Galaxy Commander. You two are... related, quiaff?” Sigurd queried.

“Of course. We are both Kerenskys.”

“I meant beyond that. I, eh, had the impression she is your genemother.”

Akela smirked. “Close. She is my genemother's sibkin—my _aunt_ , if you want to be vulgar about it. Though it is a bit funny. She now wears the same bloodright that he held.”

“He?”

“My maternal geneparent: Shura Kerensky.”

Learning had been one of Sigurd's first tasks as a bondsman, and that pursuit continued to occupy a great portion of his time. He was still trying to sort the precise workings of bloodnames and related issues. Genealogical relationships within the Clans could be rather complex, given how names were “inherited,” and the manner in which trueborn warriors were created.

“Thank you for entertaining my curiosity.”

“Of course. Is there anything else you wish to know?”

“Neg, ovkhan.” There was a lot he would like to know, but nothing he could presently ask. “Forgive me, was there something you wanted to see me about?”

The Star Colonel shook his head. “I was just on my way to the infirmary,” he replied. “The medtechs want to keep an eye on my ribs. Besides, I should not keep you from your work.”

 

* * * * *

 

“ _Hellbringer,_ bearing three-four-zero.” Erhan reported. “It's closing fast!”

“Language, warrior,” Sigurd reminded him. “Keep moving up. Alger, stay with me. Gunnar, Irene, hold position. Keep those _Threshers_ off us.”

The warriors gave their replies, and did as instructed. Sigurd watched his sensors carefully as his subordinates spread out. He did not like sending Erhan alone, but it was the best choice. The _Shadow_ _Hawk_ _IIC_ was their Star's only jump-capable 'Mech, and therefore the one most suited to flanking their enemies.

Sigurd hit the comm to Alger. “Stay close. We will focus on their _Glass_ _Spiders_.”

“What about the _Hellbringer_ , ovkhan?” the warrior asked. There was concern in his voice, which was apparently as close as the young man ever came to nervousness. With a BattleMech that weighed in at just forty tons, Alger had good reason to be concerned.

“Erhan will keep it busy.” _Or get his 'Mech shot out from under him, trying._

“The _freebirth?_ ” Alger scoffed.

“Want to trade me places, trashborn?” Erhan shot back.

“Silence! Both of you have just earned another one-k run, after this.”

Unnecessary comm chatter was the first thing Sigurd had banned at the start of this exercise. It was a distraction, and their Star had enough of those. He noted, however, that Alger had referred to their Starmate as “ _the_ freebirth.” Singular. He was not at all certain how to feel about that.

There was no time to think, though. The _Glass_ _Spiders_ were in sight, and had a massive range advantage over his _Stormcrow_. The _Lobo's_ large laser and ATMs gave Alger a good amount of reach, but Sigurd would have to draw much closer to their targets. Unlike Irene's _Glass_ _Spider,_ which bristled with lasers, these were the original configurations: two gauss rifles, each. That was not an inconsequential amount of firepower, but it did limit their foes' opportunities to hit.

A thunderous crack rang out as a gauss slug punched through the air above his 'Mech, as if in response to his analysis. Sigurd guided the _Stormcrow_ down into a gully, trying to stay low while he approached his target. Alger, nearby, launched missiles from both racks. Sigurd could not see if they hit their mark, but the attack certainly caught their opponents' attention. There was another loud crack, and the _Lobo_ jerked back as armor splintered from its left side. A second shot followed, though it missed as Alger leaned against the force of the first impact. He recovered, returned fire, and then darted amongst an outcrop of rocks to disrupt the _Glass_ _Spider_ _'s_ aim.

Meanwhile, Gunnar and Irene laid into the _Threshers_ with their large pulse lasers. The opening volley scarred one machine's chest, but the second evaded their fire. The 60-ton 'Mechs were surprisingly maneuverable, mounting both jumpjets and MASC. In the rear arc of his display, he watched the _Mad_ _Dog_ launch a salvo of missiles. They missed when their target leapt between the hills.

Sigurd returned his full attention to his own objective. His target had ceased to approach, and instead moved back and forth through the hills and trees, just outside his weapons' range. He darted from cover to cover, trying to keep his speed up to avoid the _Glass_ _Spider's_ guns. As he ascended a hillock, he began tracking the opposing 'Mech with his crosshairs. The _Stormcrow's_ LRMs soon scored a lock, and he opened fire. A few rounds hit, but not nearly as many as he hoped. Ahead of him, Alger zigzagged through the rocks, taking shots at the other _Glass_ _Spider_ with his large laser. It returned the attack, but was less successful this time. The _Lobo_ slipped away unscathed.

Further afield, Erhan picked his way through the rocks, leaping from hill to hill. The _Hellbringer_ was closing in quickly. At the same moment Erhan opened fire, so too did the opposing OmniMech. The _Hellbringer_ was not interested in pursuing the _Shadow_ _Hawk_ , however, and had turned its attention to Alger. Its lasers seared across the _Lobo's_ leg, and nearly hamstrung the smaller chassis.

The _Lobo_ faltered and slowed, twisting its torso to face the OmniMech that had just struck at it. Alger opened fire with his ER large laser, but it was little more than a paper cut to the _Hellbringer_. Sigurd stifled a curse and leaned hard on the stick as he veered away from his own target to assist his Starmate. Erhan pummeled the _Hellbringer_ with his SRMs, and that distracted the OmniMech.

The first _Glass_ _Spider_ had no such distractions. A gauss slug tore through the endo-steel of the _Lobo's_ injured leg, and the limb snapped like a toothpick. The medium machine did a pirouette as momentum translated its turn into a spin, then crashed head-first into the jutting rocks beside it.

“Alger!” Sigurd hailed him.

No response.

He pushed his throttle to maximum and cantered past the _Lobo's_ corpse as one of the _Glass_ _Spiders_ opened fire on him. One of its gauss slugs crumpled the armor on his right arm. Remembering what happened the last time the _Stormcrow's_ LRM system was damaged, he decided to empty its ammo into his target, rather than dump it. Sigurd poured his missiles into the _Glass_ _Spider_ as quickly as the system would feed them. Many missed, and the _Stormcrow's_ heat climbed, but he succeeded in thinning his opponent's armor.

“Target destroyed!” Gunnar exclaimed suddenly.

A quick glance at the radar showed that he had felled one of the _Threshers_. “Attack the first _Glass_ _Spider_ ,” Sigurd instructed.

“Aff.”

The swiftness of Gunnar's reply surprised him, but he was not about to question it. He raced through a narrow gorge, trying to flank his target. Erhan had the _Hellbringer's_ attention now, and Irene was busy wearing down the other _Thresher_. It tried to close in on her, using its jumpjets and MASC to weave through the rocks and gullies, but Irene held her ground and placed her shots well. The _Thresher_ started to look a little haggard as Irene's pulse lasers pitted its armor with glowing wounds.

They had lost Alger, which was a setback, but things were still going reasonably well. Suddenly, Erhan's signature disappeared from the _Stormcrow's_ displays. He looked back where it had been last, and saw the _Hellbringer_ emerge from the woods. It turned to face him, and opened fire. His displays went dark and the sim pod shut down.

A headshot.

Sigurd heaved a sigh and took off his neurohelmet, then raked his hands back through his now-damp hair. Rather than relax, he unhooked himself from the pod's harness, hopped out of the machine, and trotted over to the terminal. The virtual battle was still unfolding. It seemed that Irene had cut down the second _Thresher_ , and Gunnar was whittling away at one of the _Glass_ _Spiders_. Sigurd took a seat to watch to feed.

Alger and Erhan had both left their sim pods, as well. The former sat on the floor, looking rather dejected. It was little wonder, of course, that he was so dour. He was the first to fall in the battle, and did not even have a single kill to show for it. Erhan, in contrast, looked none too concerned about things, and leaned against the wall.

Gunnar and Irene held out a while longer, but eventually, they fell to the enemy Star. Irene was the last to go down, and managed to take out the final _Glass_ _Spider_ in a rather pitched duel, before the _Hellbringer_ gutted her BattleMech.

Both warriors emerged from the sim pods, but only Irene smiled. Gunnar gave her a sour look.

“Well, _I_ enjoyed the exercise,” she said to him, grinning. Playing fire support presented few opportunities for her to duel, and she clearly relished the experience, even if it was just a simulation.

“That battle was miserable,” Alger groused. “Why did the Horses break zell?”

Erhan scoffed. “The _Horses_ didn't do anything.”

“Language,” Sigurd reminded him, for the third time since the exercise began. Although Erhan had framed the response abrasively, he was correct. Their opponents for this exercise used 'Mechs common to the Hell's Horses, but there were no such Clansmen actually fighting them. “The simulation's artificial intelligence is not very sophisticated. It is prone to doing things that are illogical or unacceptable to human pilots.”

Alger frowned. “Then why bother fighting it?”

“It is a training tool, just like anything else.”

“You can't—cannot count on the other Clans to treat us honorably, anyway,” Erhan added. “We are abjured, remember?”

“Hmph.” Alger crossed his arms and settled into a more comfortable position, but seemed satisfied to leave the topic alone.

Truthfully, Sigurd had not expected them to win. The AI-controlled opponents were not very bright and had no capacity to learn, but their shots were quite accurate. The enemy Star also out-massed them by fifty tons.

“That battle was useful,” he said. “We will learn, and we will perform better the next time. Take a break, then meet back here in fifteen minutes. Star Captain Lorna and her warriors will be joining us for a team exercise.”

“Are we fighting with or against them?” Gunnar asked cautiously. There was not a great difference between the Stars in terms of total weight, but Lorna's 'Mechs—all Omnis—were much more maneuverable. Gunnar's hesitancy revealed that he did not expect good odds fighting against his sibkin, which was a reasonable prediction.

Sigurd shrugged. “The Star Captain will decide. Probably both, by the time we are finished.” He looked up from the terminal. “Oh, and Alger, Erhan... You had best not be late returning from that run.”

The warriors gave their assent with varying levels of enthusiasm, and filed out of the training room. Sigurd remained behind, and replayed the simulation footage from the beginning. The only thing to do about defeat was to learn from it. That was the pattern, the cycle, of Clan life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erhan has a confession.

Chapter 35

 

The nightmares returned with fresh intensity. He dreamt about the simulator battle, about his _Stormcrow_ being shot through the head and his body being torn apart with it. He dreamt about people and places he had never before seen, but which tried to kill him, all the same. He dreamt several times of yesterday's fight, when Matthew had gotten into a scrap with the MPs. Sometimes, he intervened and was himself attacked for doing so. Sometimes, he did nothing, and Matthew died. Sometimes, he was the one beating the man—over and over and _over_ —as he allowed hatred to consume him.

Sigurd had never expected the dreams to end, though he had hoped they might. He tried not to dwell on them after he woke. They meant nothing, he told himself. Just the instinctive, animal parts of the brain trying to sift complex information in a primitive manner. Besides, he had more pressing concerns, like properly integrating Erhan into the Star.

When he arrived at the mess hall, Gunnar was the only one of his Starmates present. They acknowledged one another with a nod, then ate their breakfast together in silence.

“Where are the others?” Sigurd finally asked, after they finished their meals and left the dining facility.

“Irene mentioned something about a hike before training. I think Alger went with her.”

“And Erhan?”

Gunnar gave an indifferent shrug, accompanied by a contemptuous sneer.

“As long as he shows up on time...”

“I would be perfectly happy if that _freebirth_ did not show up at all.”

Sigurd began to rebuke him for his language, then changed his mind. “Ah, I can hardly blame you for not wanting to spar with Erhan. He is a lot bigger than you.”

The MechWarrior's eyes flashed with indignation. He hesitated to respond for a moment, obviously aware of what Sigurd was doing, yet not wishing to stay silent and confirm even a flimsy suggestion of cowardice.

“Very well. Let us go find him,” he muttered.

It did not take them very long to do so. They spotted Erhan as they walked through the main hall of the warriors' barracks, speaking with a man in a laborer uniform.

 _Matthew_.

Erhan was leaning against a wall, chatting with the bondsman in a low voice. He chuckled at something Matthew said, but his smile instantly faded when he spotted his Starmates.

Gunnar grinned, anticipating a conflict, but Sigurd cast him a reproving look. Realizing this confrontation was not going to be the kind of fun he had hoped for, the trueborn turned and headed for the main doors.

“Bondsman,” Sigurd growled as he approached. “Have you come to waste more of my time or did you have something useful to talk about?”

With a heavy sigh, Matthew turned towards him. The man's face was mottled with bruises of various colors and badly swollen, especially around his right eye and lip. The presence of a few sutures suggested he had found his way to the infirmary at some point. He scowled as much as his injuries permitted, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his work uniform.

“I'm not here to talk to _you,_ ” he replied sourly. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to my shift.” Without waiting to be dismissed, Matthew headed for the door.

Sigurd watched him leave, then glanced over at Erhan, who stood quietly in place. “Why was he here?”

“Ah, it was nothing important, Star Commander,” the warrior answered. He crossed his arms, looking a little unsure. “Ace just wanted a word with me.”

“ _Ace?_ ” Sigurd repeated in disbelief. “You mean _Matthew_ , quiaff? The bondsman's name is Matthew.”

“Oh. He said his name was Ace, so...” Erhan shook his head. “As you say, ovkhan.”

“What did he want from you?”

Erhan furrowed his brow in concern. “Nothing. He just... He said he wanted to thank me. For helping him, that is.”

For a moment, Sigurd studied the other man's face. Erhan looked a bit sheepish about the whole situation, but there was nothing in his expression that suggested he was telling anything less than the truth. Of course, Clansmen were predisposed to honesty, and despite the other blemishes on Erhan's record, lying did not seem to be one of his flaws.

“If you want to socialize with someone,” Sigurd replied, sighing, “perhaps you should begin with your Starmates. Now come along, before we are late for training.”

Erhan bristled as he followed. “Socialize? With the trashborns?”

“I am not asking you to like them. I am ordering you to _cooperate_ with them. We are a pack, quiaff?”

“Aff, ovkhan,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“You told me yesterday that you want to prove yourself. How are you going to do that if you cannot even work with your own Starmates?”

“They are certainly not making it easy.”

“If this is all too difficult for you...”

“I see your point, ovkhan.” Erhan shook his head. “Better fleas than feather mites.”

Sigurd fixed him with a questioning stare.

The other man shook his head. “Sorry, ovkhan. Means 'things could always be worse for us.'”

“And who is 'us?'”

“ _Us._ Freeborns,” Erhan replied. “Some of the other Clans... Well, the way it was described to me,” he said voice growing tight, “their freeborn sibkos sound less like a training program and more like an extermination program. At least our Clan is one that gives its freeborns a fair start.” He rubbed at his left wrist, fingers tracing his codex bracelet and the tattoo beneath it.

“What was your sibko training like?” Sigurd asked, suddenly curious.

“It was... rigorous.”

He arched an eyebrow.

Erhan lowered his gaze, then muttered, “It was hell.”

“Because of the difficulty?”

The other man sighed and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Because of a lot of things, but mostly because I did not _want_ to be a warrior.”

This took Sigurd by surprise. He had assumed all Clan warriors wanted to be part of the touman. He had assumed, too, that members of the lower castes would be pleased to be selected for cadet training. The warriors were the pinnacle of Clan society—or treated as such, in any case.

“No? What did you want to be, then?”

“A tech, like my parents. I enjoy fixing things. But I did well on my aptitude tests, so I was selected for training.” Erhan shook his head in frustration. “Again, I suppose it could have been worse. If they had considered family history, I might have been shuffled into a different branch of the touman.”

Sigurd merely gave him another curious look.

“My grandfather was an Elemental. Made it all the way to his Blooding, before he washed out to the Technician Caste.” Erhan smirked. “Why did you suppose I'm so tall?”

“If you did not want to be a warrior,” Sigurd asked, letting the contraction slide, “why did you graduate training? Surely, you could have failed some test or trial on purpose, and been sent back to your parents' caste.”

A sardonic laugh met that question. “Too proud to quit. Something else I got from my grandfather. Or so I am told.”

“Yet you were angry that you were being trained as a warrior, instead of a technician.”

“I was angry because I was _seven_ , and they took me away from my family.”

 

* * * * *

 

“You always run with them.”

Sigurd glanced up as he did a few cool-down stretches. “You do not wish me to, ovkhan?”

“It is not a criticism,” Lorna replied with a shrug. “Just an observation.”

With very few exceptions, Clan officers were required to be in the same or better condition as their subordinates. In a warrior society, there was no place for soft creatures like the Lyran state's infamous “social generals.” Most officers, however, kept a certain amount of distinction between themselves and their MechWarriors. Lorna, as typical for a Star Captain, would observe while her Star did PT, then complete her own exercise regimen separately.

He shrugged. “I like running.”

That was true enough, but there was another reason. His main purpose was to stay close to them. Any separation, any indication or reminder that he was different in any way—freeborn, foreign, abtakha—would only increase the tension amongst them.

Sigurd looked up as he sensed Lorna's gaze on him. She stood arms akimbo, studying his face curiously.

“Something bothers you?”

From the tone of her voice, he knew it was an actual question. Rather than asking-to-confirm, Lorna was genuinely unsure.

“Aff,” he replied, “but it is unimportant.”

At first, she seemed inclined accept that. Then Lorna gave a sympathetic frown. “Well... if it _becomes_ important, you can speak with me. We are friends, quiaff?”

He hesitated. How would it look if he admitted that he could not fully control his own Star? Revealing weakness was dangerous within the Clans. If things got out of hand, however, it would certainly be worse. Sigurd did a quick mental calculation and decided the risk was worth it.

“Unit cohesion is... strained.”

Lorna had said they were friends, and she never said anything she did not mean. Besides, if he could not seek help from his own Star Captain, what could he do?

She gave a nod of consideration. “Because of the new—?”

“Freebirth!” someone yelled from the other side of the gym.

The two commanders turned to see Alger rolling across the floor, evidently knocked off his feet by Erhan, who presently whirled around to counter a punch from Gunnar. The trueborn dodged Erhan's counter-attack, then dropped down and swept the larger man's feet out from under him. By this time, Alger was standing again, and quickly returned to the fray. While the three warriors descended into a rolling brawl on the gym floor, Irene merely stepped back from them and watched.

“This is exactly what I was talking about,” Sigurd muttered to his superior. He shook his head and strode over to the fighters.

Alger was the first to notice his approach, and tried to extract himself from the tussle, while Erhan and Gunnar continued to pummel one another. Surprisingly enough, Gunnar seemed to be holding his own against the larger man.

“MechWarriors!” Sigurd barked.

With great reluctance, both men stopped hitting each other, and stood. Rather than meeting Sigurd's eyes, Erhan looked through him, still seething from whatever had prompted the fight. Gunnar looked somewhat pleased about the situation, (probably at Erhan's expense), and Alger seemed to be bracing himself for the punishment that lay in store. They all looked a bit roughed up, but no one had suffered too badly in the short time they were fighting.

“What is going on?”

At first, no one seemed eager to answer. Then finally, Erhan heaved a sigh. “I struck MechWarrior Alger, ovkhan.”

He did not bother to inquire about the cause of the altercation. “Why were you involved?” he asked, looking over at Gunnar.

The green-eyed man gave an innocent shrug, which was ruined by a typically cruel smirk. “I was merely defending my Starmate.”

Alger shot him a blood-curdling look. He did not appreciate the insinuation that he needed help, whether or not it was true. Still, he remained silent.

Sigurd narrowed his eyes. “Run. Now.”

Alger took off first, followed by Gunnar, whose expression broke into a full-fledged grin. Erhan jogged after them reluctantly, then picked up speed and muscled past Alger into the lead.

“Irene, join them.”

“Ovkhan?” she balked. “I did nothing.”

“Aff. You did _nothing_. Go join them.”

Sigurd watched her head to the track, then turned as he caught sight of Lorna strolling up beside him.

“I can see why you are concerned.”

He sighed. “I leave them alone for five minutes, and they are at each others' throats...” Sigurd turned towards her, hesitantly. “This is because of me, I think. They are still unhappy to be under my command. Since they can do nothing about it, they are taking their frustration out on Erhan, and he is not inclined to deescalate the situation.”

“How has their performance been, otherwise?”

“Inconsistent. They are all distracted. None of them trust Erhan enough to rely on him during the sim training. A few times, they have been deliberately slow in assisting him.”

Lorna nodded and her face became thoughtful. “Star Commander Melli mentioned an interesting exercise, the other day. I think I shall see about making arrangements for our Binary to participate.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“Tell me,” she began, “what would you say to a scavenger hunt?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a competition.

Chapter 36

 

Weingarten was not the most punishing environment one could imagine. It was not as unforgiving as the deserts of Rotwelt, as oppressive as the jungles of Virentofta, or as cold as the reputedly wicked tundras of Strana Mechty. For this excursion, however, it would suffice.

Sigurd looked out over the rugged hillside, covered in trees and a threadbare blanket of snow. This view from the truck's narrow window was the first chance he had to check out the terrain they would face. Sigurd and Lorna had agreed between themselves upon what equipment to take, but all other arrangements, such as location and objectives, were predetermined. The Keshik, it turned out, had been setting up additional training grounds for unaugmened exercises. The Binary's present destination was one such area, and the higher-ups were glad for volunteers to test the course.

“Of all the ways we could be wasting time...” Gunnar sighed aloud, next to him.

Lorna gave the man a look Sigurd could not quite discern. It was the kind of odd, fleeting expression that siblings often shared, like some kind of familial telepathy.

“You remember,” Gunnar replied to whatever question his sibkin's eyes had implied. “We did this sort of thing in the crèche. This is a children's game.”

Irene, sitting on Gunnar's left, patted the stock of her blocky ER laser rifle. “Did they give you these in the crèche?” she asked with a smirk. “You younger warriors are so spoiled.”

Gunnar merely harrumphed in reply.

No one offered further conversation, as to be expected. Clanners were more human than the people of the Inner Sphere often imagined (though perhaps not by much), and did like to converse and socialize with their comrades. On the whole, however, they were not inclined towards chattiness ahead of a battle or anything remotely resembling one.

Sigurd took a quick look around at the rest of his Star, trying to gauge their attitudes. Gunnar looked very... Gunnar-ish. Not pleased about their extra-curricular activity, but ready for it, nonetheless. Irene, meanwhile, wore the barest hint of a smile. Often, she looked merely resigned to their training, but her current posture showed a certain enthusiasm. Alger, to her left, had not made so much as a peep during the trip. The young warrior had mostly occupied his time by checking and double-checking and triple-checking his weapon and gear. Erhan was wedged between Alger and Cora, trying miserably to compress himself enough to avoid elbowing either one of them in the ribs. He looked bored and uncomfortable.

Feeling the truck begin to slow, Sigurd turned his head swiftly to look out the window again. Their transport rolled to a stop in a small clearing wreathed in morning fog. The ten warriors disembarked quickly, moved away from the truck as it left, and grouped up into their respective Stars.

Lorna took two parcels from her pocket, and offered one to Sigurd; it did not really matter who got which. They exchanged a nod, then joined their Starmates.

“Well?” Gunnar demanded, already short on patience.

“We have been given a map and instructions,” Sigurd answered as he opened their parcel. “There are several markers in the exercise zone. We have been given coordinates for the first. When we turn it on, it will display the next set of coordinates. Once we find and activate them all, we will move to the dustoff site.” It seemed this was going to be more of an orienteering course than a scavenger hunt.

“That seems incredibly simple. Why are we on teams? We are certainly not going to be shooting _each_ _other_ with these,” he said, gesturing to his laser rifle. It was a true enough observation. Everyone in the Binary was armed, just in case some of the local fauna became overly curious about the taste of Wolf. It was a necessary precaution, but more than a few of the warriors seemed disappointed that the issuance was for purely defensive purposes.

“This is a competition,” Sigurd replied. “There is a prize.”

Everyone stared at him. Typically, the satisfaction of victory was the only “prize” Clan warriors could or would expect.

“Which is...?”

“A ride. The losing team must hike back.” He scanned the four MechWarriors as he stiffened his posture and hardened his gaze, trying to create a more authoritative bearing. _Akela makes this look easy,_ he mused. “Gunnar, check everyone's gear. Alger,” Sigurd instructed, handing over the map and accessories they had been given, “plot a course for us. Irene, do a pace count, then double-check Alger's work.”

Erhan, stood at the edge of their little circle, stretching in order to decompress himself after the cramped ride. He shrugged off his rucksack and offered it to Gunnar, who regarded him with a contemptuous sidelong glance.

“What should I do?” the freeborn muttered. “Stand here and count the trees?”

“I did not forget about you, Mechwarrior.” Sigurd took off his own rucksack, unhooked the bulky emergency radio from it, and handed the device over to Erhan. “Make sure this is working and the power packs are good.”

The warriors sounded off their replies and set to their tasks. Sigurd helped Gunnar lay out the supplies. At the other side of the clearing, Lorna and her Star were working quickly on their own preparations.

As they unloaded their gear, Gunnar met his eyes, scowling. “We already checked our equipment before we left,” he hissed under his breath. “Why are you making us waste time on this? Do you _want_ us to lose?”

“Set half the rations here,” he instructed as he rolled out one of their tarps.

Gunnar gave him a suspicious look, but fell silent, sensing a plan. He did as instructed, while Sigurd rolled up the remainder in another tarp. By this time, Lorna's Star had moved on.

“How long do you suppose it would take us to hike back?” Sigurd asked casually.

Realization sparked through Gunnar's eyes. With a good pace and a stiff tailwind, they could be back at the base within three days; they had food enough for five.

“You overbid.” He maintained his customary scowl, but the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth suggested he took some satisfaction in this strategy.

Sigurd merely shrugged. “I seem to have miscalculated. Now, help me tie these up.”

 

* * * * *

 

Irene picked her way down the slope into the gorge carefully, in a deliberate and practiced half-slide, while the rest of the Star waited on the ledge above. It was a steep grade, and only wide enough for one of them to traverse it at a time, so she went first. Every so often, Irene would shift her weight to stop abruptly as she encountered obstacles, move left or right, and then readjust her footing. Initially, Sigurd had thought to make her their navigator. Assigning her to a scouting role had proven to be the better use of her skills.

They had made good progress, so far. Storing the field rations was worth the small sacrifice of time at the beginning of the exercise, as it lightened their rucksacks by a good ten kilograms. They could easily go without food for the time it would take to locate all the markers.

Gunnar had suggested they would be better off eating tree bark than their rations, in any case. The Clans' mess hall food was best described as bland and unappetizing, but the processed, freeze-dried, dehydrated, overly-salty Individual Meal Packs were downright horrid. High in nutrients and calories, of course, but of a taste and texture so unpleasant that even Sigurd could barely stand to choke one down. Truly, the IMPs were a testament to the Clans' ability to take any existing technology and make it _more_.

Presently, Irene reached the bottom of the slope. Alger tucked away the map and compass, then moved forward cautiously and crouched down. He scanned the incline quickly, before descending along the path his Starmate had just created. Sigurd went next, then Erhan and Gunnar followed, one after the other.

“We should be very close to the third marker,” Alger asserted. He pulled out the compass and took a few measured steps forward. The MechWarrior came to a sudden stop, turned around in place, and consulted the map again. “Actually, we should be right on top of it.”

Sigurd and the others began to scan their surroundings. The markers were metal rods, rather like oversize tent stakes, which had been dropped onto the training area. Their bright white-and-orange striping made them quite easy to spot. Just as he began to wonder if the marker had sunk into the gorge's loamy soil, Irene suddenly pointed up to the boughs of a nearby conifer.

“Found it.”

The end of the marker was just barely visible through the needles.

“Splendid,” Gunnar muttered.

Erhan walked over to the tree and peered up through the branches. “The tip is wedged into the trunk pretty deeply. No way we can lasso the end and pull it down...”

Not waiting for the others to finish their deliberations, Sigurd dropped his rucksack, then took off his gloves, parka, and coat, and slung his laser rifle over his back. He had been quite warm, bundled up in his winter clothes while they hiked, and the chill air put a shiver through his nerves.

“What are you doing?” Alger gave him a puzzled look.

Sigurd took a moment to examine the tree, then approached it.“I am retrieving our marker.” He secured his grip on the thick bark, then put one boot against the trunk and pushed himself up.

At first, the climb was easy. He had plenty of practice at this sort of thing, from a childhood spent scaling desert rocks with his cousins. The higher he moved and the more the bark bit into his fingers, however, the quicker his heart began to beat. While rock climbing was familiar to him from a young age, he had never scaled very tall trees—until his flight from the Jaguars. He reached a large knot in the conifer, secured his grip, and paused, feeling suddenly anxious.

Sigurd kept his eyes on the marker, and focused on his next set of movements as he resumed his climb. Try as he might, he only made it another meter up the tree, before memories and impressions of memories started to bleed in. His heart raced and his breathing became shallower as a feeling of dread settled over him. He kept moving, attempting to push past this feeling.

Just as he got up amongst the branches, something—maybe real, maybe imagined—stole his focus. As he turned his head to look at it, his fingers slipped. He grabbed at the tree with one hand, and felt the tough bark rip his skin; his other hand went to his knife. The blade dug into the tree trunk, halting his fall, and he latched onto the nearest branch with his bloodied hand.

“Ovkhan, are you all right?” Alger called.

With his head swimming from panic, and the drum of his own heartbeat in his ears, the young man's voice barely registered to him as anything more than noise.

Receiving no reply, Alger called after him again. “Ovkhan? Are you injured?”

“Shut up!” Sigurd snapped, and tightened his grip on both the branch and knife.

Silence.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to clear his head and fight past the nausea churning in his gut. If his hands had not been locked into a death grip on their respective anchors, he was sure they would be shaking. Sigurd shifted his weight to pull himself up onto a sturdier branch, sheathed his knife, and stood up again to continue the climb. Very carefully, he wedged himself in amongst the branches to prevent another slip, and worked the marker out of the tree. Unlike the first two, it was not already active.

Still a bit jittery and angry—at whom, he did not know—he hurled the marker to the ground, javelin-like. His Starmates scattered.

“Hey!” Erhan barked. “What you are doing? You could have hit one of us!”

“Then you should not have been standing there like a bunch of surats!” he snarled. As soon as he said it, he chided himself. That was a stupid thing to do, and Erhan was right to criticize him for it. He took a deep breath. “Just... Just turn it on, and get the next coordinates.”

Sigurd remained perched in the tree, trying to collect himself before he went back down to the ground. It upset him to be so shaken, so suddenly. It would be even worse, though, for his Starmates to see that. He occupied himself with picking flecks of bark and splinters out of his palm.

“It won't turn on.”

“What?” Sigurd was too surprised to worry about the MechWarrior's language. The markers were rather sturdy devices, and should not break easily. “You said you like fixing things, quiaff? Can you fix this?”

“I can try.” The freeborn warrior knelt down on the ground to work, and began to pry off the upper section of the marker's casing with his knife.

“Wait,” Alger piped up suddenly. “Star Commander, this might be seen as tampering with the equipment.”

“Let me worry about that,” Sigurd dismissed, and climbed back to the ground.

Erhan flashed a triumphant smile and he popped off the end casing as instructed, then examined the device intently. He fiddled with the marker's electronics a little, taking things out and putting them back together a few times. Then he picked up his laser rifle and pulled out its power pack, and switched it for the marker's power supply. That failed to yield any result.

“It looks like the problem is in the wiring. Must have been defective,” Erhan surmised. “I do not have the materials to fix it.”

“No?”

“Not unless...” Erhan looked thoughtful. “Well, I could cannibalize parts from the radio.”

Gunnar scowled. “The _emergency_ radio? Of all the freebirth ideas—”

“Do not speak to your Starmate that way,” Sigurd reprimanded. “Besides, there is no need to snap at anyone for presenting options.”

“You actually agree with him, quiaff?” Gunnar scoffed.

He shook his head. “Neg. We must be able to stay in contact with HQ during the exercise.”

“The only other option is to double-back, and gut the previous marker for parts,” Erhan said.

“Then we have already lost,” Irene lamented. If they could not turn this one on, they had no way to know where the next one might be. Returning to their prior coordinates would set them back too much. “We might as well start hiking back to base.”

The other three MechWarriors groaned. They had been doing well up to this point and, although no one said it, seemed to think they had a good chance of beating Lorna's Star to the finish.

Sigurd paced, chewing his lip in thought. _We have to get all the markers on our sheet. This one is not working, and we cannot fix it. If we look for the next marker without coordinates, there is little chance of finding it before Lorna collects all of hers._ An idea came to him, and he stopped suddenly.

“We can still win.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone tries to be helpful.

Chapter 37

 

“Star Commander.”

Lorna turned her head to acknowledge him, but did not break her stride as she walked. Her Starmates seemed to regard Sigurd's appearance as a mere distraction. They were concerned solely with their own objective.

Although their pace was steady, Sigurd noticed that their movements were not terribly energetic. They had also begun seeking lines of drift in the terrain, like the game trail which they now followed. That had made it much easier for Irene and Alger to find them. After half a day of hiking, both Stars were beginning to tire, but Lorna's warriors were farther down the curve than his own, due to the greater weight of their rucksacks. That gave him an edge.

“One of our marker beacons is faulty, Star Captain,” he said, moving to Lorna's side. “We cannot activate it.”

“I am afraid I cannot help you with that.”

“I did not expect so.”

She kept her eyes on the trail. “Then you are here to concede?”

“Neg. I wish to call for a Trial of Possession,” he stated, “for your map, your next set of coordinates, and your marker listing.”

Her eyebrows slowly worked their way up her forehead. “This is unexpected.” Lorna seemed to consider the challenge for a moment. “Very well. I accept.” Only then did she stop.

Sigurd waved for the rest of his Star to move up, and Lorna motioned for hers to halt.

“How shall we settle this?”

“I suppose we could get creative. Have a footrace or some other contest. But I think an unarmed duel would be simplest.”

“Simple is good,” he agreed.

“I bid myself.”

“I bid myself, as well,” was the answer that sprang to mind, but he refrained. Sigurd had grown used to relying upon himself, but now was not the time. While the injury from his earlier climb was minor, at least to his thinking, it had made it difficult for him to close his hand. Part of being a leader was knowing when to delegate.

He glanced over his shoulder to this Starmates. Bidding Erhan would appear a weak move, given the size difference between him and Lorna. Alger and Irene were not terribly good choices, either, as the former lacked experience and the latter lacked confidence. Then there was Gunnar.

The MechWarrior had been confident his sibkin would answer any challenge herself. He had also been confident Sigurd would lose.

“You really should give up, and save yourself the embarrassment,” Gunnar had said with a laugh, upon hearing the plan. “Not that I would mind watching her put your face in the dirt.”

“I seem to recall,” Sigurd had retorted, “that she beat you in a sparring match just a few days ago.”

“She did. In fact, I have lost count of how many times she has beaten me.” That was a rare thing for a Clansman to admit. “I have also lost count of how many times I have beaten _her_. When you and I fought, you surprised me. Lorna is my sibkin. She can no longer surprise me.”

Sigurd mulled over his decision over for a moment. It was risky, perhaps, but no more so than any other option. _How can I expect them to trust me, if I never trust them?_

“I bid Gunnar,” he declared finally.

“Bargained well and done,” Lorna agreed, looking none too shocked about the selection.

“Bargained well and done.”

 

 

The two Stars gathered in a little clearing not far from the game trail. The non-participants assembled in a ring at the edge, but did so informally. Everyone dropped their packs, and a few of them even sat. Some warriors nibbled on their IMPs reticently or drank from their canteens, taking the opportunity to rest. The combatants, meanwhile, shed their parkas and gloves. Fighting so encumbered would have been impractical, though Sigurd imagined it would have been very amusing to watch.

Gunnar gave him a curious look, still rather taken aback at being selected for the Trial. When Sigurd did not respond, he muttered a “hmph,” and began to stretch. That was the end of that. Despite his earlier assertion that he would enjoy watching Sigurd lose, the warrior was clearly much more interested in their Star's success—and his own. Within the Clans, the glory of one was the glory of all, but there was nothing quite like a personal victory. The drive to achieve individual honor was stronger than his antipathy toward Sigurd.

Presently, Gunnar finished warming up and sauntered into the middle of the clearing, where Lorna met him. No one bothered to say the Trial was starting or speak the ritual warning against interference. The two warriors merely exchanged a nod, then retreated from each other until there were perhaps two meters between them. Lorna grinned, which Sigurd had seldom seen her do. Gunnar's expression was more serious and focused.

They began to move then, each taking a few cautious steps and sizing the other up. Suddenly, both darted to close the distance. Lorna was quick on her feet, but Gunnar was just a step ahead of her, this time. After a few feints back and forth, he landed the first punch. She returned the strike, quickly. From there, it became difficult to tell who was doing what, as they danced around each other and traded blows. They looked fairly even, at first. Then Lorna hit her sibkin with a jab to the head.

He faltered and retreated a few steps, but blocked in time to save himself from her follow-up attack. Gunnar snapped one leg out, aiming a kick for her midsection. Lorna dodged, but the attack forced her to retreat. That gave Gunnar the time he needed to recover, and he went back on the offensive.

The moves were much the same as before, but there was a shift in his approach. He had gone from probing jabs meant to test Lorna's response time, to harder, more confident punches. She kept moving, blocking more often than striking as she waited for an opportunity to turn the situation to her advantage. Between the two of them, she was far and away the more patient one.

She got her chance soon enough, when Gunnar moved a little too close. As he sprang forward, she slammed a knee into his midsection. He retreated a few steps, and she caught him with a kick to the outside of his leg. Lorna continued to strike with her hands, but more often focused on kicking. She had realized that her sibkin had more energy than she did, and damaging his legs was the best way to level the playing field. Spotting an opening in Gunnar's defenses, Lorna put in an extra burst of speed and thrust one leg out to nail the inside of his thigh.

It backfired when Gunnar caught her by the ankle. He immediately wrapped his arm around her leg to secure his hold. Lorna pummeled him furiously, but he weathered the blows and pulled her off balance. She landed hard on her back and he followed her to the ground. Lorna struggled, and succeeded in getting her leg free, but could not manage to get back on her feet. The two grappled fiercely in attempts to claim the dominant position, and took turns softening each other up with punches, in order to maintain it.

Finally, Gunnar maneuvered himself on top. Lorna tucked her arms in defensively and twisted back and forth, trying to hook her legs around his body so she could reverse their positions. He was quicker. Despite her ardent defense, he managed to pry one of her arms free, grabbed it tight, and leaned back to hold her in an arm bar.

Unable to free herself, Lorna smacked his leg with her other hand to tap out.

Gunnar released her swiftly, and the two disentangled themselves. They both sat up, grass-stained, bloody and bruised, and panting from exertion. One of Lorna's warriors tossed a canteen to her.

“Well, Star Commander,” she said, turning her head wearily to face Sigurd, “the victory is yours.” Lorna glanced back at Gunnar as she drank, and gave him a nod.

“You fought well, ovkhan,” Sigurd replied. He grabbed the first aid kit, and approached the fighters. Gunnar waved him off, preferring to bleed rather than accept any help from the abtakha, and went to fetch his own canteen. Lorna held still, though, and accepted treatment without protest.

“Given the circumstances, I suppose I must concede defeat in the exercise, as well,” she said as Sigurd cleaned a nasty cut under her eye. “You had best call HQ, and take your Star to the extraction point.”

 

* * * * *

 

At first, their victory seemed to have created some measure of harmony within the Star. Irene was in an unusually impish mood, (being outdoors seemed to lift her spirits immensely), and bantered back and forth with Alger. Gunnar, too, was as close to friendly as he seemed biologically capable of being, and occasionally joined in conversation with the others. The trueborns mostly ignored Erhan, which was an improvement over their typical demeanor towards him, and he ignored them in return. Occasionally, the freeborn warrior looked to Sigurd as if intending to strike up a conversation, but Sigurd never accepted the silent offer. He simply bided the time with his own thoughts.

When the truck finally rolled up to the base, Sigurd spoke.

“You have all performed well, today.”

Three of the warriors looked satisfied, but Gunnar crossed his arms tersely. “Some of us did, anyway.”

“If you have something to say, MechWarrior,” Sigurd sighed, “then say it.”

“Erhan did nothing.”

“ _What?_ ” The accused gave a dismissive snort.

“You heard me. Everyone contributed, except you,” Gunnar maintained. “You could not even fix the marker. How is it that you are here in the Warrior Caste, when you are not even fit to be a technician?”

Erhan crossed his arms, as if to restrain himself from reaching over and slugging the trueborn. “I _could_ have fixed it, if—”

“Always excuses with your lot, quiaff?”

Irene shoved the butt of her laser rifle into Gunnar's ribs. “Stop it,” she growled, in a rare display of sternness.

“Thank you, Irene,” Sigurd sighed, glad someone was finally starting to follow the program. “Gunnar, your concerns are noted. You will let the matter go.” He grabbed his rucksack and climbed out of the truck. The others quickly followed.

 _I am_ _beginning_ _to wish we had lost,_ Sigurd thought, frustrated. _If we walked back, they_ _would_ _have_ _had_ _to_ _start_ _tolerat_ _ing_ _each other._ Victory, it seemed, was merely a distraction, rather than a lasting solution to their problems.

As they walked through the hangar, however, a new distraction presented itself. The data Matthew had brought over earlier in the week had suggested the _Mad Dog_ would be finished in short order. It appeared that the injured foot had been attended, but the 'Mech was still locked into the repair racks. Its pilot took great exception to this.

“The repairs should be finished by now!” Gunnar fumed, spotting his machine. “How many surat techs does it take to put an arm on a _Mad Dog?!_ ”

“I do not know, trothkin,” replied Alger. “How many?”

Gunnar cast the younger warrior a harsh glare. “That was not a joke.”

“Good,” Irene quipped, “because you are no good at telling them.”

“Ours is not the only unit that requires work,” Sigurd cut in. “All of the Clan's resources are stretched thin, personnel included. Unless you plan on fixing it yourself, you will simply have to be patient.”

Gunnar kept quiet afterward, but was obviously rankled. Telling him to wait was like telling a house cat to swim. He could do it, but he would not enjoy it for a moment.

“Dismissed.”

The others left promptly, but Erhan hesitated. He shuffled his feet and shifted his weight from one side to the other, trying to decide which direction to go. Finally, he turned to face Sigurd.

“Uh, Star Commander?”

“Yes?”

More hesitation. “I, uh... May I make a suggestion? About the 'Mechs?”

Sigurd nodded.

“Well, I was thinking, since we are short-handed, maybe... maybe I can do some work? With your permission.”

That took him aback. “You are volunteering to work on Gunnar's 'Mech?”

“Neg!” Erhan snapped indignantly. Almost the same instant, however, there was a look of realization in his eyes, and he quelled his temper. “Neg, ovkhan,” he said, more evenly. “I am volunteering to work on my own BattleMech. You can send the crew that is assigned to my _Shadow_ _Hawk_ to work on the _Mad_ _Dog_ , instead.”

Sigurd considered the proposal for a moment. “I trust that you know what you are doing, but are you certain you can do it alone?”

Erhan shrugged. “The repairs are fairly minor. It will probably take me ages to repaint it, but that is not so critical.” He looking down the length of the hangar to his BattleMech, which was still painted head-to-toe in the peeling, flat Wolf-grey of Omega Galaxy.

“Very well, then. But tell me,” Sigurd asked suspiciously, “why do you want to do something that will help Gunnar?”

“I do not care about helping _him_.”

“I see. This is a chance to do the work you actually want, then.”

He sighed. “It is not that, either. I mean, I do enjoy it, but... I want to help our Star.”

“You arrived with a record as long as my arm, and now you are suddenly going out of your way to contribute. Why the change of heart? You told me yourself that you did not even want to be a warrior.”

“I just— I may have had other wishes, but that does not matter. We all must play the hand we are dealt, quiaff?” Erhan shook his head and smiled tiredly. “Besides, I am stubborn.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the pattern changes.

Chapter 38

 

As the month dragged on, Weingarten's days shortened and the winter deepened. The ice and snow that had once been curiosities gradually became familiar, just as the Wolves had become familiar. That might have worried Sigurd if he had stopped to think about it, but these days, he rarely did. There was too much to do, and he had become accustomed to the routine of life in the Thirteenth.

Today, however, the routine was changing. Sigurd sulked out of the exam room, past the queue of warriors in the hall. Whatever was happening, wherever the Cluster was going, it had necessitated a trip to the infirmary to give blood samples and receive a battery of vaccinations against whatever strange and hideous-sounding diseases they were expected to encounter.

The first part, when the medics drew blood, went fine. They could have the blood. They could _take_ _out_ as much as they wanted, just as long as they didn't _put_ _in_ anything foreign. Just as long as they didn't put in anything that would make his brain turn itself inside out or pull him out of his own body or make his guts freeze solid while his skin melted off his bones. After a great deal of reassurance from the medtech, he had managed to cooperate with the vaccinations—primarily by passing out on the exam table in the midst of trying to calm himself.

He still felt dazed when he stepped outside, but the air was cold enough to sting when the wind kicked up, which was curiously pleasant. The breeze carried on it the scent of mud and hardy grasses, and a hint of charred and oily odors from the training grounds, farther away. A few times, when the technicians were not swarming over it, he had absconded with his _Stormcrow_ to practice there. The OmniMech's wide, almost comically over-large feet gave fairly good purchase on the icy ground, which made it more forgiving than Gunnar's _Mad_ _Dog_. There had been a close call on the first night he took it for a run, when the _Stormcrow's_ feet hit frozen pavement and then disagreed with one another on which direction to take him. Since then, he had redoubled his caution for better control. Perhaps a bit of maneuvering later would help shake off the uneasiness that had a hold on him now.

The door creaked behind him, and he whipped around to see Mira squeezing through the Spherer-sized entrance. Sigurd began to raise his hand on reflex, but remembered himself and let her salute first.

“Star Commander.”

It seemed strange that he now outranked her. “Warrior.” He returned the gesture.

Mira gave him a curious look. “Are you feeling unwell? You look a bit... _pale_.”

“Probably need more sun,” he replied, forcing a smile. Sigurd decided to strike up a new topic. “What do you suppose this is about? All this...” He gestured back towards the building behind them.

Some weeks ago, an influx of new warriors had arrived—the tatters of other units that had escaped or survived other conflicts. Two full Stars of Elementals had been transferred in, much to Elaine Sradac's delight, along with some AeroSpacers. Perhaps one of the new arrivals had brought back an unpleasant flu as a souvenir of their previous posting.

“Deployment.”

“Already?”

The Elemental laughed. “You should not sound so excited, ovkhan.”

He blushed faintly, both at her jibe and the way she addressed him. “It just surprises me. I thought that, with the frontline Galaxies activated, we would not be needed.”

“There is a lot happening. The khans cannot be everywhere at once,” Mira said and shrugged her broad shoulders in a fluid motion. “This is probably a new garrison posting.”

“I suppose the question then, is where will we be assigned? The Ghost Bears seized three of our planets in October,” Sigurd murmured, thinking aloud. “Perhaps they are gearing up for another jab, quiaff?”

“Perhaps, but I rather doubt it. They probably struck earlier just to remind us that they can.”

“Hm.” The Elemental knew more about inter-Clan relations than he, and so Sigurd accepted her inference. “There is still the matter of the Horses, then.” He furrowed his brow as a dark but tantalizing thought materialized. “What about our other borders?”

“What about them? Rasalhague is nothing but a rump state. The Falcons are keeping the Lyrans busy, as usual.”

“And the Falcons themselves?” he pressed, trying not to sound overeager. He still remembered how she had chided him those months ago.

“It is doubtful we will be tangling with them any time soon. I hear they have their own problems, these days.” She offered no further exposition.

He clenched his fists briefly and looked back up at the sky. _So close. You are so very close. Just wait. Just be patient,_ a familiar voice urged. _It will all be worth it,_ _when you_ _bathe in their blood._

She glanced back at him. “I know I am no longer your instructor, Star Commander, but if I may offer you some advice...?”

Sigurd startled a little from his own thoughts. “Aff?” He blinked and shook his head. “Of course. I always appreciate your counsel.”

“It is good to think ahead. It is the way of the Wolf Clan to play a long game. But there is a difference between planning for the future and obsessing over it. You must not let what _might_ happen distract you from the present.”

“I will try to keep that in mind. Thank you.”

The door of the health building swung open, and Elaine appeared. Sigurd and Mira each gave a brisk salute. The Star Captain returned it distractedly, and descended the stairs in two long strides, beckoning her Pointmate after her.

“Hurry up!” she barked gleefully. “Time to see the quartermaster about some pulse lasers.”

“Aff, Star Captain.” Mira gave a parting nod, and the two Elementals jogged off to attend to their own business.

Not long after, the Cluster's other two Star Captains emerged from the building. Following a quick exchange of greetings, Sigurd fell in beside Lorna. Julian, who still held some lingering skepticism for the abtakha, paid him no more mind than necessary and departed. Sigurd looked to his own superior with curiosity, but waited for her to speak.

“We leave in seven days,” she announced, pulling up the hood of her parka. “I trust that will be sufficient time to prepare, quiaff?”

“Aff. I will ensure that all is in order, ovkhan.”

“Everything is strictly need-to-know, so I cannot tell you much about our assignment.”

That caught his attention. “Of course, Star Captain.”

“I can give you a timetable and enough information to make your requisitions, though. In the mean time, the Star Colonel has scheduled field exercises for the Cluster.” She reached into her pocket and handed him a datapad showing the week's training program. It was, in a word, grueling. Such a strenuous regimen would not be necessary ahead of a simple garrison posting.

 _This is a combat deployment._ His pulse quickened in anticipation as he scrolled through the document. They would be facing a real enemy this time, an adversary worthy of the Wolf Clan.

“Star Commander?”

Sigurd looked up, startled from contemplation for the second time today. “Sorry. I was just... thinking about logistics. Will the exercises be live-fire, quineg?”

Lorna shook her head. “Neg. Paint rounds and flashbulbs, this time.”

That was a relief to hear. They had enough repairs to finish within the week without having to patch up their armor yet again. He handed the datapad back to her. “With your leave, I will begin my tasks immediately.”

“Very well. And be aware, the Keshik will be observing our maneuvers.”

 _No pressure, quiaff?_ He grimaced. “Then my Star will give them a performance worth watching.” Sigurd turned then, and headed off to give his subordinates the rundown.

The three trueborns were easy enough to locate, having just finished their daily workouts at the athletic center. They received the news eagerly, probably anticipating combat just as he was. That left only Erhan to be informed of the change.

The most obvious place to search was 'Mech hangar. Navigating along the catwalks, Sigurd spied Erhan stretched out the _Shadow_ _Hawk's_ shoulder, lying on his belly in order to reach down into an open armor panel. Another figure sat beside him, rifling through a tool kit. At first, Sigurd thought one of the techs was there to lend a hand, but the man wore a Laborer Caste uniform.

Matthew looked up as Sigurd approached. While the scrapes on his face had scabbed over and the swelling had gone down, his skin was still discolored with bruises. His eyes looked less tired, but only slightly. He grimaced.

Concentrating on his work, Erhan had not yet noticed Sigurd's approach. “Wire cutters.” He reached back blindly with one hand and made a “gimme” motion.

The bondsman obliged him and handed over the item, but kept eyes on Sigurd warily. “And I was having such a good day, 'til now.”

“That makes two of us,” Sigurd retorted. “What are you doing here?”

Hearing his superior's voice, Erhan pushed himself up from the hull of the 'Mech and turned around. He gave a murmur of, “Star Commander,” but did not interrupt otherwise.

“I'm off my shift,” Matthew answered, a bit defiantly.

“And what are you doing _here?_ ”

He shrugged, picked up a thermos, and passed it to Erhan. “Just making myself useful. That's what you want, right? You want me to work? So, I'm working.”

“I find that difficult to believe.” Sigurd frowned.

“Actually, ovkhan, he _is_ helping me...” Erhan offered.

Matthew flashed a triumphant smile, which Sigurd returned with a glare.

“Leave. I need to speak with Erhan.”

The bondsman scowled, apparently ready to protest, but then seemed to think better of it and slunk off. When Matthew had gone, Sigurd turned back to his subordinate. “What has he been doing?”

“Just what I said, ovkhan. He has not been doing any major work, of course. Just fetching tools, and such.” Erhan drew his knees up to his chest and sipped from his thermos. “If you would rather he not, then I will tell him to stop coming by.”

Sigurd tilted his head. “You mean this is a recurring activity?”

“Um, aff.” Erhan chewed his lip in thought. “It was... um, the day after we got back from the training exercise. Ace—er, Matthew came to talk to me. He gave me a hand with my work while he was there. He has stopped by every day since then to help.”

His initial suspicions intensified. “And what did Matthew want to talk about?”

“He said he didn't understand our customs, and asked if I could explain a few things. The castes. Work credits and allowances. That sort of thing.” Erhan appeared to hesitate then, and took a long sip, as if to buy a moment to think. “He, um, also asked about you, ovkhan.”

Sigurd stared at the other warrior. He felt suddenly angry, but tried to rein it in quickly before he shot off at the wrong person. This was not Erhan's fault.

“I did not tell him anything.”

“As you should. We depart for our next assignment in seven days. Field exercises are planned for the whole week. The schedule will be up in the barracks. I expect you to be punctual, and I expect you to cooperate with your Starmates without complaint.”

“Aff, ovkhan.”

“And since you and Matthew seem to be getting along so well,” Sigurd muttered, “ _you_ can be responsible for ensuring that he gets on the DropShip.”

 

* * * *

 

The journey, as always, was a slow one. They were headed coreward, Sigurd knew that much. Their first stop had been Moritz, and now the Wolves' _Invader_ lingered above the small, fierce star of Basiliano. The system had been recaptured from the Hell's Horses recently, so there was no task here for the Thirteenth Wolf Regulars. They were, however, within striking distance of three still-occupied worlds. No one yet knew their objective, but it was now clear to him that Mira's conjecture had been correct. At present, the Horses were his Clan's main concern.

 _And so they shall be mine,_ he mused.

The deeper parts of his mind still burned for a taste of combat against his hated enemy, but he could wait. He had been patient this long; why not a little longer? This would simply be another chance to sharpen himself.

Sigurd looked up from his notes, and tried to settle into the chair under him. Despite his best efforts, he could never manage to actually sit in it—only to rest somewhat in its general vicinity. His stubborn insistence on parking himself in a chair while spacebound probably seemed a little weird to the others, but just floating, as Elaine and Melli were presently doing, made him rather uncomfortable for reasons he could not quite describe. He decided his position was satisfactory for the moment, and now watched intently as Julian and Lorna stared each other down from opposite sides of the table at the center of the room.

Lately, Lorna had been focused on a tactical program, rather than the sim pods. She and the other Star Captains engaged in large abstracted battles centered not on recreating the experience of piloting an individual 'Mech but of commanding a force, much like the difference between a game of tag and a game of chess. Sometimes, the Star Commanders were drafted into these events under the guidance of their superiors, but often times they simply observed. As much as he wished to be piloting, this provided a much-needed opportunity to study Clan combat on a larger scale.

The Clans necessarily had a much different approach to warfare than the InnerSphere, and generally chose to wage their campaigns with different goals and tactics. A particularly striking example was their hesitancy to engage in urban warfare. The armies of the Inner Sphere were willing to rip apart a whole metropolis if it would net something they wanted. The rubble of four Succession Wars lay in testament to that. While the Clans had become more skilled at fighting in cities over the last two decades, they still thought poorly of it. Too much collateral damage. Too much _waste_.

Sigurd thought again of what he had read in the Remembrance. _All praise the art of batchall and bidding/_ _For it proves our love of peace and tradition._ When he first read that passage, it had confused him. Now, he was beginning to understand. For the Clans, peace was not an absence of conflict, but a mastery of it. Better to carefully channel humanity's innate aggression, than try in vain to smother it.

The problem now was trying to reconcile what he carried from his old life with the ways of the Clan. While the details of his mercenary career felt increasingly muddled, eroded by time and his own sense of revulsion, memories of combat were still sharp. He would need that. The Clansmen of Hell's Horses stood apart from their kin with their penchant for conventional armor. Since vehicles comprised most of the opposition a small merc outfit faced, Sigurd had plenty of experience in that regard. Many of the tactics which he had previously used against such units were not within the spirit of zellbrigen, however, and generally fell outside the letter of it, too. Kicking vehicles, to name one example, had been an especially popular tactic, as it saved bullets.

Another complication was the fact many Clan vehicles were capable of carrying Elementals. If such a unit made it past the Wolves' line in battle, the resulting damage could be catastrophic. All the more reason to watch these games carefully and absorb what he could from the veteran Wolves.

“This is your final bid, quineg?” asked Julian, observing the forces Lorna had assembled.

The corners of her mouth turned upwards in what seemed an imitation of a smile. Much like her sibkin, genuinely happy expressions were rare for her. “Aff. I have made my choice.”

Her selection appeared on the displays, denoted by three stars: two red for the 'Mech units, and one green for the Elementals. They represented her Binary along with Elaine's battle armor, bid into the fight on contract. Julian's force had a significant advantage in tonnage and overall value, and while it was typical for the defender to out-mass or outnumber the attacker in Trials, the margin between them was much higher than one might expect. Sigurd  knew , however, Lorna was not cavalier in her bidding.

Julian's dark eyes narrowed as he looked the younger trueborn over critically. “So be it. Bargained well and done.”

“Bargained well and done.”

With the preamble concluded, the simulation itself began. Sigurd paid close attention to the second 'Mech Star in Lorna's force, as it represented his own. The Star Captain had broken it from the rest of her forces, and sent it ahead to stall Julian's forces in a narrow valley.

He lifted his head when he heard mag-soled footsteps and the sound of another warrior taking hold of a chair behind him. Knowing already who approached, he kept his attention on the officers at the center of the room and the displays above them.

“This should be interesting.”

Sigurd muttered a reply of, “Aff,” merely to show his awareness of the Star Colonel's presence.

During this trip, he had made a serious attempt at intelligence gathering, but there was nothing to find—or if there was, he had not enough clearance to discover it. Akela's only activities involved preparing for the Cluster's next engagement. He had tried a few times to converse with Star Commander Melli, hoping she might let slip something of value, but her contempt made getting more than the time of day nearly impossible. Akela's presence now only served to remind him how miserable a spy he was. He hated this task from the Galaxy Commander, and he hated even more that he had nothing to show for his efforts.

The Star Colonel moved forward suddenly, holding the back of a chair with one hand to anchor himself, and reached over Sigurd's shoulder with the other to tap a nearby display. The view changed at his touch, zeroing in on a clump of allied 'Mechs, as a wave of forces from Julian's side crashed against it. The friendly units appeared to be holding their own at first, then began to whither under the superior firepower of the enemy machines. More of Lorna's units appeared, but rather than coming to the aid of the rest, they continued on toward their target, leaving the first Star to succumb. Seeing the main body, Julian tried to change the course of his troops, but it was too late. By now, the attacking 'Mechs were more than halfway to their goal, and the Elementals had disappeared into the woods, where the defenders would be hard-pressed to dislodge them. Seemingly out of spite, Julian's Star turned and cut down the retreating Star they had first engaged, before trundling after Lorna.

“That was yours, quiaff?”

“So it was,” he replied stiffly. Beneath his carefully neutral expression, a slow dread, like the gnawing of little teeth, began to wear at him. It was only a simulation. It was only a simulation, but she did it so glibly. He shuddered.

“Are you all right?”

“Just cold.” One thought quickly unraveled into another, quickly tangling into a mess of memory and fearful speculation. Sigurd exhaled slowly, and gathered his things, before the terror could further consume his attention. “I think I will run a few laps,” he said, excusing himself hurriedly, “and shake off the chill.”

Akela watched him, appearing partly concerned—and partly critical. “I understand you value survival,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But tell me, trothkin, what else do you value?”

Sigurd held still, caught off-guard by the sudden question. His words stuck in his throat but before he could attempt an answer, Akela continued.

“I value this Clan's survival, and I will do anything to ensure it. I expect the same of my officers.” His mouth jerked into a frown briefly, then reverted to its usual smile as he turned back to watch the simulation.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the enemy is discovered.

Chapter 39

 

_Planting._

After nearly a month with no word about their objective, it was nice to at least know the name of the place. Sigurd glanced down at the world displayed on his datapad. It looked unremarkable. He wondered just what was so valuable about this particular lump of rock that the Clan would throw more meat and metal into prying it from enemy hands, then quickly decided he did not care. It was not his concern.

Since landing in October, their comrades in Gamma Galaxy had steadily retaken ground from the Hell's Horses. Three continents remained under Horse control, but Gamma's 103rd Striker Cluster had carved out a foothold on two others. The Thirteenth was not part of that campaign, however, and Akela had been firm on that matter during the briefing. Their task was simpler: a Trial of Possession for supplies and lower caste personnel from the Hell's Horses. It was not the Wolves' choice to hold the Trial here, though. Their opponents had named the battlefield, hoping a defeat would demoralize the Wolves and cement the Horses' hold on Planting.

Akela had reportedly made a show of being irked by this selection in his batchall with the Horse commander. In truth, Planting was fairly advantageous for the Wolves, as well. It was easily accessible, thanks to their comrades' presence, and if they won, they could funnel isorla straight to the 103rd. If they lost, they could quickly retreat behind friendly lines. It was obvious, however, that retreat was the last thing on any warrior's mind. The Thirteenth was stinging from their defeat on Steelton, and even the new transfers were eager to repay the Horses for that loss.

There was a curious gamut of emotions in the Cluster, at present: shame and anger for prior losses, derision of the Horses' “second-tier” status and simultaneous respect for their skill, and most of all, a fierce determination to regain honor. No matter the outcome of this Trial, the chance to further bleed their foe was appealing.

Sigurd found himself sharing in this fervor, though privately, he worried. He was one of the few in the Cluster who had never before faced the Hell's Horses. For that matter, he had never faced warriors of another Clan as a Clansman, himself. He trusted his subordinates' skills, but he wondered how well they trusted his. When the time came, would they follow his commands? Would they hold together? Unit cohesion had slowly, steadily, improved during the journey. The constant training had made even Gunnar less antagonistic, but there was always the chance things would fall apart in the field. He supposed they would find out soon enough.

Sigurd shook those thoughts away and tucked the datapad into the thigh pocket on his trousers, then stepped through the bulkhead door into the 'Mech bay for one last inspection of his Star's machines. Each footfall rang against the catwalk, and felt like skulking through mud as the magnet-soled boots sucked his feet down to the floor. It was easy to tell who was an old hand at space travel by their choice of locomotion. Spacers rarely walked, unless they had to. They preferred jumping from place to place or pulling themselves hand-over-hand along railings—both much quicker means of getting around a ship.

As he approached the 'Mechs, he noticed something unusual amidst the din of machines and work chatter. Someone was singing, and he immediately recognized the voice. Sigurd made his way to Erhan's _Shadow_ _Hawk_ _IIC_ , the source of the noise, and was unsurprised to see Matthew chanting a favorite mercenary rhyme while he buffed away a scratch in the cockpit's ferroglass.

“Hatchetman with battle axe, gave the Falcons forty whacks. When it saw what it had done, it gave the Wolf Clan forty-one!”

“What are you doing?” Sigurd grumbled. He pushed off from the catwalk and drifted up beside the bondsman, taking hold of a grab bar on the hull.

Matthew took one look at him and sprang to the opposite side of the canopy, well out of arm's reach. “Singing.”

“Find something _else_ to sing.”

The bondsman shrugged and returned to his chore. “ _Die Gedanken sind frei, war kann sie erraten,_ ” he sang flippantly. “ _S_ _ie fliegen vorbei—_ ”

Sigurd narrowed his eyes. “You are not amusing. I approved your reassignment here on the understanding that you would behave yourself.” He cast a warning glare at some of the nearby techs who were watching. “I suppose I should have known better. Now, stop this _chalcas_ behavior and do your work, or I will send you back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, no,” the bondsman said flatly. “I'll be stuck peeling Potato IICs, again. Have mercy.”

“Keep up this insolence, and I will send you back in a body bag.”

Matthew began to shrink away from him again, then changed his mind and leaned closer. “ _Was ist los mit dir?_ ” he hissed.

“ _Mit_ mir _—?_ ” Sigurd cut himself off and hurriedly switched back to English. “My problem, bondsman, is you.”

“ _I don't believe that,_ ” Matthew continued in German.

“You are trying my patience.”

“ _Why are you acting this way? Why are you pretending to be something you're not?_ ” His mouth pulled into a grim frown. “ _Du_ _bist_ _kein Clanner_.”

Sigurd sprang forward, reaching across the _Shadow_ _Hawk's_ canopy, and grabbed Matthew by the collar of his work uniform. “Listen, closely, bondsman,” he snarled, twisting the fabric so it dug into the man's neck.

“Star Commander?” called another voice from the catwalk. “Something I can help you with?”

He heaved a sigh. _So, that was the source of Matthew's sudden confidence._ The bondsman was cleverer than he let on. “Neg, Erhan,” Sigurd called back. “Just having a word with my bondsman.”

Reluctantly, he released Matthew. Had it been anyone else who arrived, he would have continued this object lesson, but it seemed prudent right now to back off. He did not trust that Erhan would stay out of this, considering his prior conduct and his fiercely protective attitude towards civilians. (Sigurd still wondered how the warrior thought an ex-merc fit that category.) In any case, he did not care to invite a challenge he was not certain of winning.

“One of these days,” he murmured, turning again to Matthew, “my patience for you will run out, and Erhan will not be around to help you.”

“ _One of these days,_ ” Matthew replied softly in German, “ _you will have to take off that wolf skin._ ”

 

* * * * *

 

Sigurd lifted the visor of his neurohelmet to get a better look at the landscape ahead as he and the other Wolves stalked through the shadow of a deep canyon. This region, called Toscano, was hot and dry and not unlike Rotwelt. With only scraggly brown plants to decorate the rock, this place was much duller, but the geology was familiar. He had spent countless hours learning to pilot his _Dervish_ in canyonlands like this. Leaping from cliff to cliff had always been a welcome thrill. He regretted that he had not thought to find out if the _Stormcrow_ could be fitted with jumpjets.

A new shadow fell across the ground in front of him and he pitched the 'Mech's torso upwards, ready to shoot. Even as his finger hovered at the trigger, he recognized the shapes on the ridge: a group of Odessan raxx. The reptilian animals were used as beasts of burden on many worlds, and it was not uncommon to see feral ones in hot climates. He toggled the zoom function on his display to confirm that they really were animals, and not some horrific new battle armor or ProtoMechs the Horses were fielding. Satisfied with his findings, he returned the _Stormcrow_ to its regular posture.

Lorna's voice warbled over the private channel. “Everything all right, Star Commander?”

“Aff, ovkhan,” he replied. “Just animals.”

“More of those lizards?” There was a note of displeasure in her voice.

“Raxxen are usually harmless.”

She scoffed. “They must be the size of ground cars.”

“They are usually harmless, _if_ you leave them be,” he amended. The warriors continued in silence then, each contemplating the battle to come.

The Hell's Horses had a substantial numerical advantage, which was wider still if one tallied each side by individual units rather than Points. Both the Thirteenth and their opponents had bid away their AeroSpace fighters early on, which Sigurd had learned was quite common in Trial. On the Wolf side, Julian's Binary was the next to go as Akela pared down their forces to the necessities. The choice was not lightly made, but the fact was that weight had to be shed somewhere, and Julian had the slowest 'Mechs. Sigurd considered himself fortunate that his own Star had not been the one discarded.

The Binary and their Elemental reinforcements drew ever closer to the battlegrounds, and his nerves grew hot with anticipation. By this time, Akela was probably engaged with the Horses, using the speed of his 'Mechs to harass their tanks on the open plains. Lorna had been given the task of sweeping around to hammer the enemy flank. Sigurd's Star, being less nimble, was assigned with providing fire support and keeping their enemies out of the pass. He glanced over at Lorna's _Shadow Cat_ and the mottled-tan Elementals clinging to it. One of them waved, and he knew it must be Mira.

Ahead of him, Lorna began to slow as they approached a fork in the canyon, created by a high wall of rock. Her _Shadow Cat_ twisted back to face him and gave an abbreviated “forward” gesture with its hand. Time to split up.

The Star Captain throttled up swiftly and disappeared through the right-hand path, followed closely by the second _Shadow Cat_ and the _Pouncer_. The _Linebacker_ and _Timber Wolf_ approached the mouth of the pass more slowly, then crouched down to allow their passengers to disembark before continuing. The bulk of the Cluster's Elementals had gone with Akela's detachment, whose swift OmniMechs could easily ferry them wherever they were needed on the field. Some had been held back and placed with Lorna's Star, to be dropped off at various points throughout the canyons. It was a means of area-denial, Mira had explained to him earlier. By settling into defensible positions, Elementals could act as living caltrops to slow or altogether discourage an enemy's advance. She had also warned him to expect the same tactic from the Hell's Horses.

As it happened, each side fielded an equal number of battle armor, today. It seemed fitting, for the Wolf Clan had created the armor, and the Horses had developed the Elemental phenotype to use it. While the Thirteenth stuck with the standard design, their opponents were reportedly using the newer Gnome suits. The Gnome was more heavily armed and armored than the standard suit, for the price of mobility and speed. Allegedly, they were incapable of the dexterity needed to swarm a 'Mech, but Sigurd had no intention of getting close enough to find out.

As the last of Lorna's units disappeared from view, he torso-twisted back to face his own Star and bobbed the _Stormcrow's_ nose in a sort of nod. They headed around the left side of the mesa, maintaining a spear-like formation with the two slowest 'Mechs at the rear. He looked again to the cliffs as they advanced. The opposing Cluster favored medium OmniMechs, which likely meant that they had a lot of jumpers. That put his own Star at a distinct disadvantage, but the high walls of the canyon would prevent the Horses from fully exploiting that.

Sigurd looked to the _Shadow Hawk IIC_ , following along in his four o'clock, and tapped the comm. “Erhan, can you get to higher ground?” he asked, gesturing with his left arm towards the rock. The very top of the canyon looked inaccessible to BattleMechs, but there was a ledge along the side that seemed within reach.

A buzz of static preceded his voice. “I can try.”

“Do it,” Sigurd instructed. “Scout ahead as far as you can, but do not engage. Repeat, _do not_ engage. Keep out of sight. Report the moment you discover any Horse units.”

“Aff, ovkhan.”

The humanoid 'Mech pulled ahead of the Star and leapt from the canyon floor on its jumpjets. Its repairs had been completed over the journey, and it sported fresh tan paint—but only on the upper half the chassis. From the waist down, it was still bore the dull scheme of its old unit, with ugly green primer peeking out where the Wolf-grey paint had worn off. Although it looked garish up close, it blended into the shadows of the rock easily as it ascended to higher ground.

He was not so certain about the wisdom of sending Erhan off from the rest of the Star. Perhaps even more than the rest of the Cluster, he seemed to be harboring a grudge against the Horses. Unfortunately, Sigurd's options were limited: either send the only jump-capable 'Mech ahead of the others, or walk blindly into battle.

The rest of the Star moved automatically to adjust their formation after Erhan's departure.It pleased Sigurd that they did so without instruction. Together, they proceeded through the twists and turns of the gorge at a cruising pace, each of them alert for any sign of their enemies. There was always a chance they would travel the whole length of the gorge and find nothing at all. The battle on the plains could shift at any time.

A few minutes later, the electrical crack of a PPC echoed through the canyon, and he knew Lorna's Star had met resistance. It seemed they would not have to worry about missing the party, after all. The map showed an intersection ahead, where the two channels of the gorge met. He could link up with the Star Captain there.

His comm crackled. “Contact with two Horse Stars: one of BattleMechs, one of vehicles,” Lorna informed him.

“Copy, Star Captain. Moving to reinforce your position.”

“Engaging elements of both Stars,” she said, though not in reply to his transmission. With the rocks still separating them, all their messages were being bounced off of satcomms, causing a small delay. Finally, she did answer him. “Copy that, Star Commander. Watch your fire. We are still under zell.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” He switched frequencies to his Star. “All points, prepare to engage, but hold fire,” he instructed. “Skirmisher Alpha has first call on targets. Mixed 'Mechs and—”

“Contact! Got a pair of Omnis.”

A ripple traveled through the Star, as each warrior readied their weapons and maneuvered into a wider formation. Sigurd toggled on the topographic map and switched his sensors to infrared briefly, checking for battle armor hidden in the pass. Finding none, (or none that were powered up), he moved forward cautiously and signaled the others to follow.

“Copy that,” he replied to Erhan. “Withdraw from weapons' range, and report.”

“Aff, Star Commander.” The _Shadow Hawk_ moved from rock to rock as it made its way back towards the others. “Looks like a _Viper_ Alpha and a _Nova_ Foxtrot, one klick out, in the canyons. Tanks approaching from the flats.”

“Foxtrot?” He knew that indicated an F-configuration, but he was unfamiliar with precisely what this entailed for a _Nova_.

“Three medium lasers, and a HAG,” Erhan elaborated.

 _Stravag_.

The hyper-assault gauss rifle, another delightful invention of the Horses, was a rapid-fire weapon with a high damage output and a long reach. The last thing they needed was a jumping 'Mech with that kind of firepower between them and the rest of the Binary. Lorna had specifically reported BattleMechs—standard units—not _Omni_ Mechs, so these two must have come from a different Star.

“Do they have any battle armor?”

“Neg. None on the ground, and neither 'Mech is loaded.”

That was not something he wanted to hear. The Horses typically paired OmniMechs and battle armor, or tanks and battle armor, but rarely did they partner 'Mechs with tanks. He doubted very much that there were no Elementals with this force. Finding them would be a top priority.

“Erhan, take the _Nova,_ ” he instructed. “I will deal with the _Viper_. The rest of you, hold position.”

Each warrior responded with a determined, “Aff!”

The _Shadow Hawk_ leapt from its perch and fired one of its large lasers, before alighting on another ledge. Gunnar, Alger, and Irene meanwhile came to a halt and fanned out into a V-formation to cover the entire straightaway ahead of them.

Sigurd knew those three did not enjoy this order, but their 'Mechs were suited to long-range fighting. Better to let the Horses come to them here, in the open. That was, after all, the whole point of this strategy: gain a strong defensive position, let their adversaries tire themselves in the attack, and then counter when the moment was right.

He trotted ahead, took a quick peek into the bend of the canyon ahead, then entered it, weapons ready. Erhan continued to spot, relaying the Horses' movements as he exchanged fire with the _Nova_. The _Viper_ was heading towards Sigurd's position, though the Horses did not seem to have noticed his _Stormcrow_ , yet. He hugged the right side of the canyon, hoping to keep it that way. As soon as he passed through the bend, he would be in the open intersection between the two canyon channels, and within perfect range to tear into the _Viper_ with his pulse lasers. He checked his HUD quickly, and gunned the throttle.

The first thing he saw upon bursting into the open was the _Nova_ Erhan had described, leaning back almost to the point of sitting on its haunches in attempts to get a good angle on the Wolf machine. Rock burst from the canyon wall under his Starmate's feet even before the bark of the _Nova's_ main gun echoed through the canyon. Erhan stabbed at it again with a laser, seeming rather incensed about the HAG shot, then bounded away to draw it after him. As the _Nova_ moved, Sigurd spied the wedge-like form of his target. Its chassis was mostly hidden by an outcrop of rocks, but the ashy paint and black trim made it visible against the deep earth tones of the desert.

Before he could pull the trigger, a sharp _ping_ from the console caught his attention. Sigurd immediately swung the _Stormcrow's_ torso up and backpedaled, just as a gold-colored beam sizzled past him with a hum. A new 'Mech stood staring down at him from the rocks above: another, meaner _Viper_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the spark of hooves meets the glint of fangs.

Chapter 40

 

The first laser beam had missed. The second did not.

Armor sloughed from the _Stormcrow's_ back, and a shudder ran through the machine into Sigurd's arms as he tightened his grip on the control sticks. From the corner of his eye, he saw his intended target disappearing back into the roughs. The threat of the _Viper_ _H_ leering down from the ridge above him eclipsed that, and he slammed the throttle into reverse. He had seen the data on heavy lasers, but feeling them slice into his 'Mech put the damage potential in visceral terms. Adrenaline churned through his system as another heavy beam sizzled into his hull, followed by the thump of small pulse lasers. The _Viper_ would mince through his armor at this range.

Sigurd swung his left arm up and fired a hurried volley of his own pulse lasers to cover his retreat. The shots found their mark, softening armor on the Horse 'Mech's right arm and leg. It could easily outrun him, but perhaps he could out-maneuver it. He turned, pressed the throttle to full, and darted back toward the canyon bend.

“Engaging a second _Viper._ The Alpha config is moving westward,” he informed his Starmates. Switching frequencies, he informed Lorna. “Looks like I will be delayed, Star Captain. We found more of the Horses. Omnis.”

“Copy, Star Commander,” Lorna replied, her voice tense over the rapid _chak-chak-chak_ of machine gun fire. It must have come from an enemy; her _Shadow_ _Cat_ had no such weapon. “Keep them occupied.”

“Shall we pursue?” It was Gunnar who spoke, now.

“Negative. Do not advance beyond my position. Let them come to y—”

There was another ping from his console. Sigurd looked up and saw the _Nova_ that Erhan had engaged sailing through the air on its jumpjets, joined by yet another _Viper_. The two OmniMechs landed less than fifty meters from him, each sending up a spray of red dust. To his surprise, they ignored him and galloped eastward into the canyons.

“Heads up! Two 'Mechs inbound on your position: a _Viper_ Prime and the _Nova_ ,” he said.

“On it!” Alger chimed in response.

Sigurd wheeled back on his own opponent as it leapt from the ridge to close on him. He jerked back the control stick and squeezed the trigger when the shrill of a missile lock sounded in his ears. Just as his LRMs neared the _Viper-_ H, a loud grumble echoed through the gorge and over half the salvo burst with a flash and a puff of smoke. A few warheads made it past the anti-missile system, and plunked into the arm of the OmniMech. Sigurd muttered a curse, and followed through with another barrage of pulse lasers as he made a dash for the canyon bend. The _Viper_ weaved back and forth, undeterred by his attack, and clawed at the legs of his 'Mech with its medium lasers. He shifted the _Stormcrow's_ weight, leaning against the damage, and again spat pulse lasers at the Horse.

Ahead, he caught sight of the two 'Mechs that had passed him. The _Nova_ had managed to get onto a ledge in its pursuit of Erhan, while the _Viper_ Prime harassed Alger. Hot, dripping welts in the _Lobo_ _'s_ armor showed it was taking the worst of that exchange. Gunnar and Irene, meanwhile, were anxiously awaiting a chance to step in. They did not have to wait long.

“Mark two more Omnis, half a klick to the west,” Erhan reported suddenly. “ _Viper_ Alpha and _Nova_ Prime.”

“Copy. Irene, Gunnar, engage at will.”

“Aff!” they replied in unison.

A green glow lit the canyon as the two Wolves sent blasts of their pulse lasers down-range. One or another of them succeeded in scorching the newly-revealed _Nova_ , drawing it into the fight. A moment later, the _Viper_ followed, similarly stung. That accounted for the entire unit. If there were more, if there was battle armor, they were staying very well hidden.

There was a distant thunder of ordnance from the other side of the canyon, where Lorna was engaged with rest of the Horses. Sigurd could only hope her Star was faring well. At the same time, he kept an eye on his nearer comrades. Alger and Irene were steadily chewing into their targets, while Erhan continued playing tag with his.

Gunnar was nearest, and busy opening a hole in the _Nova_ Prime's leg. It stumbled when his pulse lasers broke through the armor, and looked as if it would fall. Instead, it kicked itself forward with a burst of its jumpjets and laid into the _Mad_ _Dog_. Gunnar fought to compensate for the damage, leaning his birdlike 'Mech and pawing the ground to stand, but the strain was too much and too sudden. The _Mad_ _Dog_ faltered and landed awkwardly on its side.

Sigurd felt his throat tighten. Although the _Nova_ was not a swift 'Mech, it was rapidly closing on the _Mad_ _Dog,_ eager to finish off its prey. It had more than enough firepower to do so. His first impulse was to turn and cover his Starmate, but he choked down that instinct. They were still under zellbrigen. Gunnar was on his own.

 _Get up, get up, get UP!_ Sigurd mentally cursed.

With far more ease and speed than either Sigurd or the _Nova_ pilot anticipated, Gunnar shifted the _Mad_ _Dog's_ weight forward onto its jutting center torso, pulled its legs in close to the body, and stood. The 'Mech rocked back on its feet as its pilot centered himself, then galloped forward. The _Nova_ tried to backpedal as soon as the _Mad_ _Dog_ got up, but the change in course cost it precious seconds. Gunnar began savaging its aft armor as he maneuvered into its blind spot. The hunched 'Mech staggered and hit its jumpjets in a bid to reach safety. Undaunted and undoubtedly angry now, Gunnar pursued.

The _Viper_ _H_ retreated back to the rocks where Sigurd had first encountered it, and ducked into cover. Rather than pursue, he came to a complete stop. Intentionally breaking line-of-sight was frowned upon in zellbrigen, and seen as cowardice. But the Horses were no cowards. The _Viper_ was trying to draw him out into the open.

It reemerged shortly after realizing he would not follow, having grown impatient. Fortunately, the grey-painted Omni had put more distance between the two of them than Sigurd could have on his own. He walked backwards slowly, preparing for his opponent to close within range, and held his crosshairs steady over its hull. Its anti-missile system had eaten most of his previous LRM salvo, but not all. He squeezed the trigger once for the long-range missiles, waited half a second, then fired both racks of streak SRMs. The first salvo burst apart, leaving just a few warheads intact, but the _Viper's_ AMS could not reload fast enough to stop the streak missiles that followed.

The stubby missiles opened deep gashes in the _Viper's_ armor. It leapt forward and cut into him again with a flurry of lasers. He glanced at his HUD out of habit, but he did not need to look at the readout to know his _Stormcrow_ was bleeding armor. He could feel it becoming lighter, more fragile, with every slash.

“Target destroyed!” Gunnar exulted suddenly.

He glanced to the aft portion of his display and saw the _Nova_ Prime lying on its back, steam pouring from the shattered cockpit. That was one less 'Mech to worry about. “Copy that,” he said, letting a sigh of relief hiss out of his lungs.

“Permission to engage—”

“Negative!” The rest of his Starmates were still entangled with their own targets. If any of them should fall, Gunnar would have to step in. “Hold position.”

“Understood,” came the stiff reply.

Sigurd blinked away the sweat rolling down into his eyes. The _Stormcrow_ was running a bit hot at the moment, but he knew the _Viper_ pilot must be broiling after that last attack. At this point, the MechWarrior could either back off to sink some excess heat or attempt to close in and gut him. Wisely, they chose to back off. Rather than turn its back to him by running, however, the _Viper_ lit its jumpjets and leapt up onto ledge that stabbed up from the canyon floor.

Now was his chance. Sigurd gunned the throttle and darted forward, turning to strafe the other 'Mech. He felt a laser graze the side of his own machine as the _Viper_ tried hastily to repulse him. It turned, moving with an anxious gait, and tried to pick its way down from the ledge. It should have simply jumped away, but its heat sinks were oversaturated.

Sigurd swung the _Stormcrow's_ torso up and dragged his crosshairs over its hull. Sucking air into his lungs in preparation for the heat spike to follow, he fired. The first set of pulse laser beams scorched the _Viper's_ side. He held the trigger flat and walked his shots along its body to the leg he had weakened earlier. The pulse lasers cut through the endosteel of the limb easily, severing it at the hip.

The pilot tried to throw the 'Mech's weight against the canyon wall to keep from falling, but that only delayed the pull of gravity. It crashed down on its left side, snapping the remaining leg at the ankle, then teetered on its wedge-shaped torso before slipping over the side of the ledge. The _Viper_ hit the ground with a hideous crash and a squeal of metal, then bounced once before coming to a stop, crumpled on all sides.

Sigurd did not pause to inspect the damage, but turned instead to get a look at his Starmates. Gunnar was still waiting tensely, out of the way of the others. Alger was keeping his target at bay by alternating between missiles and his large laser. There were some ugly boils on the _Lobo's_ V-shaped chest, but its armor readout was still solid. Sudden movement at Sigurd's nine o'clock arrested his attention, and he twisted around just in time to see Irene's _Glass_ _Spider_ stumble and slump against the canyon wall under a shower of missiles. The dish-shaped sensor array on its head had prevented her from slamming cockpit-first into the rocks, but the 'Mech was in poor shape. A deep, glowing rift trailed along her BattleMech's thigh down to its foot; it was crippled, now.

Her opponent took that moment to close in, no longer afraid of her pulse lasers. Again Sigurd felt his heart race; he hated doing nothing while an enemy 'Mech prepared to open his Starmate's back. Irene shifted her weight onto her 'Mech's good leg and used her arms to clumsily push herself back from the rock and into an upright position. The _Viper_ was near enough to pummel her, and the two machines tore into each other savagely.

A hiss and pop of static fizzled over his comm system as the Binary-wide frequency opened abruptly. “Echo Lead to any available 'Mechs! Requesting immediate assistance in grid delta four!”

“Echo-Niner, hold position,” Lorna replied to the hail. “Someone will assist you when possible.”

“Star Captain, half my Point is trapped under a BattleMech,” the Elemental snapped. It sounded like Tammi's voice. “I need assistance _now!_ ”

“Negative,” Lorna said. “All 'Mechs are currently engaged. We cannot help you.”

“ _Savashri!_ ”

Sigurd interjected. “I have a 'Mech available.”

“Point Commander—” Lorna broke off her retort upon receiving Sigurd's reply. “Copy that, Star Commander. Assist at your discretion.”

“Gunnar, proceed to...” Sigurd began. His voice dropped off as soon as he remembered the _Mad_ _Dog_ lacked a crucial piece of equipment for this task: _hands_. The only machines in their Star with hands were the _Shadow_ _Hawk_ _IIC_ , which was still battling the _Nova,_ and his own _Stormcrow_.

“Say again?” Gunnar asked.

“Disregard that.” He heaved a sigh and throttled up. “Maintain a defensive position and hold fire. Prepare to support the rest of the Star. You are clear to engage any incoming hostiles. If things go badly, lead your Starmates back to the rally point.”

“Wilco,” the warrior replied uneasily. “Where are _you_ going?”

“To help Echo Point.” He frowned as he double-checked his system readouts. The _Stormcrow's_ armor was in rough shape in most places, and torn completely open on the back of his left shoulder. “You wanted to be a commander, quiaff? Try to act like one while I am gone.”

The crack of weapons' fire grew louder as Sigurd rounded the canyon, and he could see bits of armor debris glinting in the sun. He switched on the infrared overlay to reduce visual distractions. There was a flash of movement as a Wolf 'Mech leapt across his field of view, glowing a hot, hideous yellow on the IR, and followed closely by a pursuing Horse. Sigurd hunkered down and slunk through the shadows, trying to remain unnoticed. It was not long before he spotted the downed 'Mech that had trapped Echo Point. A Horse _Conjurer_ lay crumpled among a cluster of rocks, glowing with the heat of a still-active fusion engine.

“Echo, this is Star Commander Sigurd,” he said, scanning for the wreckage for signs of movement.

A small tan-painted figure appeared on the rocks and waved at him. “Ovkhan, down here! Hurry!” a man's voice urged him.

The Elemental leapt down to the ground again, and Sigurd followed. He spotted another Elemental, Tammi, next to the _Conjurer's_ hull. She was trying to cut into it with her pulse laser in a stubborn but futile attempt to free her companions.

“The 'Mech shook us off, then collapsed,” she said. “Three of my warriors are still pinned.”

“And the 'Mech's pilot?”

“Out cold. I could not wake her.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Lift the 'Mech's right side straight up. If you drag it, you could crush them.”

“Aff.” Sigurd approached the limp body of the _Conjurer_ carefully, and sank into a crouch. The myomer muscles and endosteel bones of a 'Mech were strong, but the _Stormcrow_ was not designed to move something nearly its own mass. He pressed his right arm against the fallen machine's hull for balance, then took hold of it with his left hand. Slowly, he centered his weight and began working the foot pedals, using the strength of the _Stormcrow's_ legs to lift. His OmniMech's actuators whined as it heaved the dead weight of the _Conjurer._ He could not hope to keep this up very long, but it was working.

“Keep going,” Tammi directed. “A little higher... Higher... Hold it there!”

The seconds crawled by as he held the _Conjurer_. The waldo glove provided some tactile feedback, but keeping a steady grip with the hands of a golem took a lot of guesswork. He was not entirely sure how long he could keep hold of the other 'Mech, and he could not see the Elementals. A sudden groan of metal punctuated that thought and he instantly clamped his hand tighter.

“Hurry.”

“Just hold on...”

Another metallic squeal warned that he was losing his grip.

“Tammi—”

“Clear!”

Sigurd let go and leaned back, letting the BattleMech fall back to the ground. He had to trust that Tammi's instructions were correct, but he looked down at the ground as soon as he could. Fortunately, he spied five humanoid shapes near the feet of his 'Mech.

“Status?” he asked worriedly. One of the Elementals lay crumpled and still.

“Dejan is all right, and Paola will recover. Ebra was already dead, but we retrieved his body,” Tammi said, gesturing to the prone one. She began clambering over the rocks, making for the east and followed closely by the others. “Thank you for your help.”

Sigurd surveyed the landscape. All of the Horse 'Mechs were presently engaged, but they had surely noticed him by now. Although he needed to return to his own Star before they cut him off, leaving the Elementals here did not sit well with him. They had been carried quite far from their trench line. It would be a lot of ground to cover on a good day, but the fighting to the east was ferocious and there was little available cover.

“Come with me,” he invited. “We will have to go the long way around, but I can take you back to your trenches.”

“Very well.” The Elemental alighted on his shoulder. The rest of the warriors followed her lead and leapt onto his OmniMech, quickly latching onto the grab-bars. Somberly, she added, “Sosimo was our ride, until the _Conjurer_ gutted his 'Mech.”

Before he could reply, Erhan's voice interrupted. “Star Commander!” he cried. “Just spotted some incoming—” A painfully loud _ka-shunk_ drowned out the warrior's voice and the comm went to static

“Erhan?” Sigurd asked, throttling up. “Respond.”

Silence.

 _Stravag_. He pushed his OmniMech to its top speed, making for the shadow of a bluff as he swung around to rejoin his comrades. “Gunnar, sitrep.”

“A little _busy_ , right now,” the man grumbled over the staccato noise of the _Mad_ _Dog's_ pulse lasers.

“ _Gunnar!_ ”

“We are holding them,” he replied brusquely. “Irene lost both her arms, but the whelp and the freeborn are still fighting. We found the enemy battle armor. These things are like _roaches_.”

Sigurd opened a channel to Tammi. “My Star has made contact with the enemy's Gnomes. Can you—” A series of heavy thumps reverberated through the _Stormcrow's_ hull suddenly, and he felt its weight shift.

“...Tammi?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no plan survives contact with the enemy.

Chapter 41

 

Metal hooves thumped against the _Stormcrow's_ hull and the sound of an autocannon—an infantry-grade autocannon—hammered into armor. The chirring noise of the Wolf Elementals' pulse lasers followed. There was a strangled yelp over the comm. Sigurd slammed his throttle back and stumbled to a halt.

A hulking grey figure tumbled past his cockpit, grabbed onto the nose of his 'Mech with a black, three-fingered hand, and tried to hoist itself back up. A pulsed beam fired from somewhere above his 'Mech's shoulder ruined the grey thing's grasp. The Elemental who shot at it went hurtling through the air immediately after, as if thrown from the 'Mech.

“GNOMES!” someone screamed over the din.

That was the thumping sound he had heard. There were Gnomes on his 'Mech. He wondered frantically how they had gotten onboard. That was not something assault armor should be able to do.

Of course, that was the nature of combat. The enemy would always find a way to do something unexpected.

A pained grunt followed his Wolf compatriot's too-late warning, and a mottled tan blur fell past his field of vision, entangled with a larger grey beast. One more followed under its own power, possibly in pursuit of the Wolf who had been dislodged. His armor readout began to flash where one of the Horse troopers ripped into the _Stormcrow's_ ferro-fibrous hide, and he could hear them shearing into his 'Mech.

When he was first adopted and still learning how to be a Wolf, he had asked Elaine Sradac what to do if he ever found himself swarmed by Elementals.

In her oddly serene way, she had replied, “Pray to whatever gods you freebirths hold dear.”

When he told her that he had no gods, she laughed.

“Then do the same thing you would against any other foe,” she said. “Whatever you can.”

Sweat rolled down his face even as his skin grew cold, but now was not the time for fear. He could roughly sense their positions on his 'Mech, the metal extension of his body, as their mass changed his balance. There was at least one on his back and another on his right arm. He let the Stormcrow's right leg go slack and violently threw his weight to the same side, smashing his shoulder into the nearby rocks. The metallic howl of the crash was almost deafening, but he leaned back and then scraped his shoulder against the cliff face once more. When he pulled away, he saw a smear of black harjel mixed with blood, and he no longer felt the weight of the Gnome.

Quickly, he whirled around and slammed his back against the rocks. The clatter of armored feet on his hull told him the move was unsuccessful. They learned quickly. He throttled up and began running in exaggerated zigzags, twisting and turning, and shaking the _Stormcrow's_ torso to buck off his unwelcome passengers. One of them finally slipped. Instead of falling off the 'Mech, however, the Horse managed to latch onto one of the grab-bars next to his cockpit.

From the corner of his eye, Sigurd saw the readout for his SRMs flashing the word “blocked.” He turned his head away, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes from the coming blast, then hit the weapon's override switch and squeezed the trigger.

Missiles poured from the rack in a wave, rattling the 'Mech as they crashed against the humanoid obstruction and exploded with a roar. Something—a piece of a warhead or maybe part of the Gnome—hit the canopy beside him. When he dropped his arm and turned, a spiderweb crack in the ferroglass and little bits of still-glowing ash were the only evidence of the warrior that had been clinging to his 'Mech half a second before. The warheads that remained intact now slammed into the dirt some distance away with a muffled thump.

 _Scratch two_ _._ He forced down the icy, constricted feeling in his chest and shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. He looked to his sensors next, searching for any sign of more Gnomes or his own comrades.

To the west, there were three signatures—no, two. Three again. Now a fourth. He did an about-face and toggled the optical magnification, hoping for a visual on what he could only assume was a fight between the Wolf and Horse Elementals.

“Point Commander,” he hailed, “what is your situation?” His hearing was still fuzzy from the blast, and he hoped he was speaking loudly enough.

Tammi answered him, her voice muffled and awash with static. “Ovkha...? Engaged wi... Gnomes. Need to... re... quiaff?” was all he managed to catch amid the noise. His comms, (or perhaps hers), must have been damaged.

He sighed and leaned the control sticks gently; he would just have to go investigate the situation. As he nudged the _Stormcrow_ into a walk, a metallic thump echoed through its hull. Sigurd felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he looked up in the direction of the now-familiar noise.

_I missed one._

There was a guttural roar of jumpjets, and the weight briefly lifted from his body as the Gnome took off. Sigurd yanked the control sticks to turn and floored the throttle, in attempts to evade before it touched down. He was not so lucky as that. The armored figure landed directly in front of his cockpit with a crash, and clung to the nose of the 'Mech.

Sigurd fired off the streak missiles from his left-side rack, hoping to dispose of this enemy in the same manner as the last one. The Gnome merely hunkered down and allowed the missiles to rush past harmlessly. Desperately, he swung the _Stormcrow's_ left arm up, but the lower arm actuator whined when he tried to grab for the battle armor. Sigurd strained at it, trying to force the limb—willing to break it if only he could reach—but the _Stormcrow's_ arm could not turn far enough inward. With that failed, he swung his 'Mech's torso back and forth furiously to shake off the Gnome. For a moment, it seemed to slip, then dug its battle claw deeper into his armor and held fast.

Suddenly, it lit its jumpjets again and rocketed forward onto the frame of his canopy. Sigurd pressed his back into the command couch and pulled back on the control stick reflexively—too fast and too hard. The _Stormcrow_ stumbled backwards into the cliff wall. The shock of unexpected impact rattled through him, but the Gnome was once again unfazed.

It raised its arm high and brought its clawed fist down on the ferroglass between them. A crack began to form. It was trying to break in. A second time, it struck. Little tributary cracks branched out from the first impact. It was going to break in. Three times, now. It was going to break in and kill him. On the fourth strike, the Gnome's fist punched through, showering him with bits of ferroglass.

Sigurd looked around the cockpit frantically, searching for something that might be an effective weapon. His gaze fell to the control panel. Looking up again at the Gnome, its claw reaching for him through the hole in the ferroglass, he flicked the canopy switch.

With a groan of actuators, the canopy popped open, flinging the Gnome with it. It smacked into the hull with a loud _thunk_. Sigurd pulled off the neurohelmet and felt his connection with the OmniMech evaporate; bereft of its pilot, the _Stormcrow_ sagged down against the cliff. He slipped out of the harness, feeling unbalanced now that he was no longer supporting the machine's weight, and climbed out of the cockpit. Sigurd drew a deep breath as he clambered down onto the 'Mech's blunt nose, trying to recalibrate his reflexes. He pulled off his gloves. Behind him, the Gnome was scrabbling to free itself.

He leapt for the rocks and grabbed onto a ledge. Sigurd used his legs to push himself up, his bare fingers quickly finding purchase on the rocks. The cooling suit restricted his movements, but sheer adrenaline and terror gave him the needed energy to continue climbing. He lost track of time briefly, focusing only on keeping his grip and where to go next, but he soon found himself nearing the top of the cliff. With a final burst of energy, he hauled himself over the edge and onto solid rock.

A low rumble reverberated through the air, as Sigurd scraped himself onto his feet. He had never really expected to evade the Horses. Even in the heat of the desert, he felt cold as the mountainous grey battle armor landed in front of him.

Twice, he had been made prisoner to an enemy force. Perhaps the Hell's Horses treated their bondsmen well, but it mattered little. He did not have the strength to survive it. The very idea of being captive ever again terrified him. There was still one way out, though.

He drew his knife.

A booming, acidic laugh emanated from the armored figure. He could not see anything behind its faceplate, but he could feel a set of eyes staring into his own. Then, in a voice that seemed not fully human, it spoke. “I like your spirit, Wolf.”

“I admit defeat,” Sigurd said, putting as much force as he could muster into his voice in attempts to drown out the fear as he lifted the knife to his throat, “and I request the rite of bondsref.”

The Gnome took one huge step forward and smacked the knife from his hand with its gun arm, then speared its battle claw through the outer layer of his cooling suit and hoisted him off his feet. Hot traces of pain shot through his skin where the claw sliced him.

“I will not be denied my _isorla!_ ” the Gnome roared. “You _stravag_ —”

Suddenly, it fell mute and glanced up, dropping him. Sigurd felt his shoulder pop out of place when he landed. The Gnome raised its gun arm and squeezed off a shot at something airborne. No sooner had the warrior fired than it went flying backwards. It hit the ground with a clatter, pinned to the dirt by the tan Elemental who had just pounced upon it. Stunned, the Gnome tried to twist free and flailed its arms defensively. It fired off another hasty shot, scorching its opponent's side. The Wolf, undaunted, gave a shriek of rage and drove its battle claw down on the Gnome like a war hammer. There was a loud crack of glass followed by a wet crunch, and the Gnome flailed spasmodically. Again, the Wolf Elemental struck, and the Gnome's struggles became weaker. This continued until well after the Horse had ceased to move, and only stopped when the Wolf seemed to tire. Finally, the victorious Elemental dropped its arm to its side and stood.

Sigurd, who had long since gotten to his feet and collected his knife, approached cautiously. The Wolf half-turned toward him. It had dropped its SRM pack, and lost much of the armor on the distended belly of its suit. As he neared, it popped open its visor. Sigurd would have been glad to see any of his Clankin, but the sight of Tammi's face was a particular relief.

“Point Commander.” He glanced back the Gnome's carcass. Its faceplate was smashed in, and the sand around the body was wet with blood and harjel. “Thank you for...”

Tammi cut him off. “Consider us _even_ , ovkhan.” She looked him over, frowning, and pulled at his torn cooling suit with her battleclaw. “You are bleeding.”

“Oh.” He had almost forgotten. Sigurd unzipped his suit halfway to check the damage: three jagged gashes across his belly. Quite painful, but not deep enough to be serious.

Tammi wiped her bloody claw clean on the sleeve of his cooling suit, then dug into one of the lacerations in her armor, dredging up some fresh harjel. Carefully, she smeared the stuff across his skin. It felt unpleasantly warm and sticky-yet-oily, with a pungent odor of saltwater and tar. He might have imagined the effect, but the sting seemed to leave his wounds.

“My Point subdued the Gnomes who attacked us,” Tammi said. “Paola was further injured during the battle. I do not expect that she will be able to fight for some time, but Dejan and Azhar are in able condition.”

“And you?”

“Nothing that will take me off the field.” The pauldrons of her armor bobbed with a weary shrug of her massive shoulders. “We had best get moving, quiaff?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are technical difficulties.

Chapter 42

 

Sigurd felt himself drifting into an uneasy daze as he guided the _Stormcrow_ through the long, blue shadows of the desert. He tried to focus. Tried to ignore the sand blowing in through the hole in the ferroglass. Tried to strangle the intrusive memories of the Gnomes. There was something—a kind of noise, but also a feeling—that hovered at the periphery of his consciousness and continued to draw his attention. It was a low, keening sound that came in unsettling flashes of yellow-green and dragged little claws along the folds of his mind. He had felt it ever since he got back into his OmniMech, and he was certain it had not been there before.

A sharp scuttle to his right snapped him back to alertness, and he glanced over to see Tammi had readjusting her hold on the grab-bar below the _Stormcrow's_ right-side SRM rack. The two exchanged a brief glance through the cockpit canopy. Her armor was still stained with dried blood. When the Clans' battle-armored infantry had first appeared in the Inner Sphere, they were taken to be aliens, monsters, or demons by those whom they terrorized. That assessment, Sigurd thought, was not altogether wrong.

He looked to the aft portion of his viewscreen to check once more on his subordinates. Sigurd had returned to them first, as promised. Although Gunnar welcomed him and the Elementals, (“Took you long enough,” was essentially a welcome), it was doubtful the man would have been too bereft had they not returned. In any case, Gunnar kept further grumblings to himself and maintained formation behind Sigurd on their way to the field base. The _Mad_ _Dog_ was dirty and scorched, and its hull badly pitted and scarred from battle, yet it moved with all the incorrigible arrogance of its pilot.

Upon returning to the rally point, he had found Gunnar and the rest of the Star waiting amidst the wreckage of their battle. The last _Viper_ had escaped, but the HAG-toting _Nova_ lay broken in the sand. Greasy stains and a trail of metal detritus led back to what he surmised were the remains of the battle armor that had attacked the _Mad Dog_. The outcome of that fight was clear. The _Shadow_ _Hawk IIC,_ previously untouched, now sported a particularly nasty wound. Its torso armor was torn open and twisted from a volley of slugs that had missed the cockpit by a whisker. Alger's _Lobo_ , meanwhile, had lost one of its arms during its duel with the _Viper._ Erhan obligingly dragged the limb with them, in hopes it could be reattached or otherwise salvaged.

Hobbling along at the tail end of their wedge formation was the _Glass_ _Spider_ , which Gunnar had described as “no longer combat-effective.” One of its legs was twisted and bent, the sensor dome was cracked, and its protruding torso was caved in. A collection of wires, raggedy bits of endosteel, and half-melted myomers were the only evidence the BattleMech ever had arms. Gunnar's assessment of it showed an extraordinary talent for understatement on his part.

Finally, they reached the Wolf field base. It was a bare-bones installment, huddled against the rocks and lit by harsh floodlights. With the Horses retreating and each half of Skirmisher Binary having taken a beating, Lorna had ordered everyone back for repairs while there was a lull in the fighting.

While the rest of his Star proceeded to the repair bays, Sigurd aligned his OmniMech with one of the catwalks and allowed the Elementals to dismount. Paola disembarked first with the help of her comrades. Her left arm had been crushed in the fight, and while her suit had kept her stable during the journey, she was in serious need of medical attention. Tammi was the last one to depart, and gave a Sigurd a small nod when she did: thanks, perhaps, or approval. She had remained perched beside his cockpit throughout the journey, never leaving. He felt safer with her there. Perhaps she felt safer with him, too.

Sigurd turned away and guided the _Stormcrow_ into the last open bay, then lowered it into a crouch. He was alone now with his thoughts: one of the last places he wanted to be. Everything came rushing back at once as he stared at the hole in his canopy. He felt sick.

Quickly, he shut down the reactor and disentangled himself from the harness, sensors and neurohelmet, then stumbled out onto the catwalk. Sigurd took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and clear his head, fighting against the sensation of bile rising in his gut.

 _Dehydration_ , he told himself, and took a swig from his canteen. _I just need water_.

He took another step, immediately lost his balance, and stumbled into the railing of the catwalk. Sigurd pulled himself up unsteadily, clenching his jaw at the pain lingering in his shoulder. He felt light-headed and suddenly unreal, as if his body was not his own and somehow wrong— _glitchy_.

“Ovkhan?”

Sigurd looked up to see Erhan standing in front of him. He straightened his posture and tightened his grip on the railing. “Aff?”

Erhan looked him over curiously. “You seem unwell.”

“I am just dehydrated.”

The warrior nodded, then sat down on the edge of the catwalk, letting his legs hang over the side. Examining the _Stormcrow,_ he gave a low whistle. “ They really worked you over, _quiaff?_ ”

“I suppose so.”

The OmniMech's armor was ragged, its paint was chipped and scraped, and the whole machine was coated in a layer of Planting's grainy dust. The shoulder actuators sounded creaky and the right-side missile rack would need to be cleared of debris, but the rest of the weapons worked. For all he had put it through, the _Stormcrow_ was still operating in fairly good order. With some new armor (if there was any to spare) and general maintenance, it would carry him through the rest of this Trial.

He took another drink from his canteen and, still dizzy, sat down. Star Captain Lorna would be wanting a report from him, but perhaps that could wait just a little while. Just until his head cleared.

“When I was in the Grenadiers,” Erhan said, “one of my Starmates took a shot to the cockpit. It did not penetrate the frame and he was uninjured. But afterward, the 'Mech started leaning off-balance.”

“A gyro problem,” Sigurd surmised.

The warrior nodded. “Aff, that is what everyone thought, but the problem was not resolved after a realignment. And with the whole... _situation_ on Nyserta, no one had time to really investigate the matter further.” Erhan chewed his lower lip pensively. “A few days later, he started losing his own balance. He could not walk straight, could barely stand. We discovered that his neurohelmet had been damaged. The calibration was all wrong.” He paused, then hesitantly added, “I noticed, as we traveled, that your 'Mech was leaning.”

“Aff, I lost armor some armor.”

“On your right side. You were leaning in the same direction, not opposite the damage.”

A sudden shiver crawled through Sigurd's spine. Neurohelmets were, by their very nature, somewhat dangerous devices. An improperly calibrated helmet could create an array of effects that ranged from irritating and unpleasant to injurious. Sufficient levels of feedback could cause permanent brain damage, or even kill a pilot.

“I can fix it. The calibration, that is,” Erhan offered.

“OmniMechs have auto-calibrating helmets. The _Stormcrow_ would need a new unit, _quiaff?_ ”

“Neg. No one ever tells you—techs do not want warriors messing with it—but there is a manual mode. The processor housing has to be opened to access the switch, but it can be manually calibrated after that.”

“Can you finish the repair before we return to the field?”

“I think so.”

“Very well,” Sigurd assented.

Erhan rose to his feet, stretched, and gave a brief nod. “I will fetch some tools and begin immediately.” He turned on his heel to leave.

“Ah, warrior?” Sigurd called after him. The other man paused and looked back. “Your Starmate... Did he recover from the feedback?”

“I do not know. He was killed the next day.”

 

* * * * *

 

The briefing was a strangely informal affair, held in one of the tents that had been set up as temporary barracks. Elaine, Lorna and Sigurd huddled around a datapad sharing a meal of rice and canned meat between as they discussed the day's events. The two Star Captains carried most of the discussion, while Sigurd remained largely silent during the conversation. He still felt unbalanced and unfocused, and abnormally fatigued, but the food helped to re-energize him somewhat.

Lorna gave the first report with her usual detachment. Elaine looked rather bored during all of this, (she had been there, after all), but took notes. The Elemental gave her own report with more verve. It was not embellished, but there was a clear sense that she relished the 'Mech kills her warriors had made. Between the two of them, the Wolves had scored half a dozen kills, but the Hell's Horses had made certain it cost them. Even so, Lorna was satisfied with the outcome. They had won, after all. Elaine felt their margin of victory should have been wider. They had taken too much damage, she said, which would make the next battle that much more difficult. Lorna insisted that the salvage they had recovered would hold them over. Sigurd did not openly agree or disagree with either of them, and no one wanted to hear the opinion of a mere Star Commander. That was fine with him. He still felt stunned to have even survived.

When it was finally time to detail his Star's participation, he tried to keep things simple and factual. There was no place for fear or emotion in his report. Sigurd expected that recounting the incident with the Gnomes would be difficult. As he gave his report, however, he found that talking about it made the whole thing seem as though it had not happened to him at all, but to someone else. Only the pain in his chest from the Gnome trooper's claw reminded him how tangible the experience had been.

Elaine laughed grimly as he concluded, and made a grudging comment on their enemy's resourcefulness. Irritated, Sigurd guessed, not to have thought of that strategy herself. Lorna, on the other hand, seemed greatly concerned about the manner in which the Gnomes had been able to ambush him. Like Sigurd, she had not expected assault armor to be capable of anything like a swarm attack.

The worrisome thing was not that this had happened to Sigurd, but that it could happen again—and to any one of their 'Mechs. That was going to be a problem if they continued fighting in the badlands. If they moved on to the open fields, however, they would be exposing themselves to the Horses' tanks. Some _Ares_ had already harassed Lorna's Star. Only their hesitancy to pursue their target into the narrow canyons had allowed Shenna, the _Pouncer_ pilot, to dispatch them. The worst part about tanks was that they always came in pairs; and unlike most Clan tankers, the Hell's Horses boasted reasonably skilled crews. The two Star Captains discussed this quandary for some time, before finally moving on to the subject of salvage and casualties.

“The support crews retrieved our dead and wounded, as well as the defeated warriors,” Lorna said, standing. At her touch, the datapad shifted to list the Horse bondsmen and the Wolf warriors who had captured them.

“I see your sibkin has returned empty-handed, again,” Elaine mused, leaning back against a crate behind her. “No sense in ruining his reputation, _quiaff?_ ”

“Our own casualties were relatively light,” Lorna continued, ignoring the remark. “Sosimo is too badly injured to fight in the short term, but the rest of my Starmates are in able condition.” She looked to Sigurd. “I trust yours are, as well?”

“Aff. There were only minor injuries,” he replied over the persistent buzzing in his head. Irene had suffered a couple of sprained fingers, and the others nothing more than scrapes and bruises. He had not yet been to the infirmary, and he hesitated to go, since his own wounds were slight. As long as he left the harjel “bandage” alone, everything would be fine. Probably.

“Good. Minimal losses.”

Elaine's mouth jerked into a thin line. “For you.”

“Aff,” Lorna responded. “The BattleMechs are our most important asset—”

The Elemental woman scowled down at Lorna. “I lost two warriors. Three more have severe injuries, and I have yet to hear from the Star Colonel about the rest of my troops. Founder knows what their casualty rate was.”

“Do you expect me to be grieved about this, Star Captain?”

“I expect you to show some respect for our contribution _._ _My_ Elementals were the ones who took out the _Conjurer_ , after _your_ MechWarrior made a mess of things. We were also the ones who kept that _Dragonfly_ from overrunning the line, or did you fail to notice?”

Lorna's cool facade withered into an irritated glare. “We are getting off-topic, _quiaff?_ ”

“Very well, then.” A sardonic grin lit Elaine's features. “What are you going to do about ensuring transport for my Star, with two of your Omnis out of commission?”

Sosimo's _Shadow_ _Cat_ and Cenek's _Linebacker_ had been completely ravaged during the battle. The Elementals previously paired with them would never be able to keep up with the flow of battle on their own feet.

“Star Captain?” Sigurd spoke up. Both women turned towards him, and he looked from one to the other uneasily. “I can take two Points with my Star. The _Mad_ _Dog_ and _Stormcrow_ are still in fighting condition.”

“Not my first choice,” Elaine sighed, “but I suppose it is better than leap-frogging all the way to the front.”

Lorna merely nodded. As the junior of the two, it was not really her call.

After things simmered down, the conversation moved on to the issue of patrols. Elaine and the other Elementals would keep watch in camp, and Lorna volunteered to take the first perimeter watch. Sigurd would take the second. The rest of the schedule was drawn randomly from their able pilots.

No one really expected the Hell's Horses to launch an ambush in the night, for that would be unClanlike and inglorious. But something had incited this invasion, and it was unclear just how far the Horses would go to accomplish their goal. The universe was changing, and the Clans with it.

 

Dusk had fallen by the time the briefing ended. Only a small streak of red now remained at the horizon against the encroaching deep blackish-blue of Planting's moonless night. The floodlights around the base ensured that visibility was no concern at this hour, however, and Sigurd found himself squinting against their glare as he climbed the stairs to the top of the repair bays. Although he hoped to take the _Stormcrow_ for his patrol shift, the _Mad_ _Dog_ would suffice if needed. In any case, it seemed best to check on Erhan's progress.

There was a low murmur in the air, as he approached, which he first took for part of the noise that had been plaguing him. As he drew closer to his 'Mech, he realized it was not imagined but the sound of a conversation.

“Hand me the electrical tape?” asked one voice.

“Aff,” replied a second. “All done with the mic wiring?”

“Yeah, this ought to take care of it,” continued the first, now identifiable as Matthew. “Christ, I'm glad I never had to fight Toads.”

“ _Toads?_ ”

“Elementals. Say, what the hell kinda beastie mangled up your ride?”

“A _Nova_ ,” replied the second conversant. It was Erhan. “The F-configuration carries a HAG/20.”

“Sounds fun. Never fought anything with a HAG before.”

“I would _not_ recommend getting hit by one,” the MechWarrior said. “I thought I was going to go deaf from that shot. I guess I am just lucky it didn't rearrange my face.”

Sigurd rounded the corner to see Erhan sitting in the _Stormcrow's_ cockpit, hunched over his work. Opposite the warrior, fiddling with some kind of access panel, Matthew sat perched on the console.

“Well, it's a good thing,” he chuckled. Matthew reached out a hand to ruffle his fingers through Erhan's mohawk. “Your face looks best where it's at, mate.”

“You would be the minority opinion. I think the others are disappointed I survived,” Erhan replied with a dismissive snort, and smoothed his hair back into shape. “I wonder if the Star Commander is done, yet.”

Sigurd strode up along the side of the _Stormcrow_ to the cockpit. “How go the repairs?”

Matthew jumped a little and nearly dropped his tools. He scrambled to collect them and started shoving supplies back in his tool belt, refusing to meet Sigurd's eyes. Erhan merely turned around to face him, still holding the neurohelmet.

“Ah, Star Commander. Everything is going well. If you have time now, I can finish the manual calibration. You will have to be wearing it while I work.” He set the device down on the command couch and climbed out of the cockpit.

Matthew clambered down after him, and onto the catwalk. “I'll, uh... I'd better go help with the salvage intake,” he muttered. To whom exactly he was speaking was somewhat unclear.

“Thanks for your help,” Erhan called after him.

A faint sense of unease began to gnaw at Sigurd, as he stood half-leaning against the side of the _Stormcrow_. He put a hand on the canopy framing to steady himself, even as the noise began to needle him again, and peered into the cockpit. It had been cleared of ferroglass shards and sand, and one of the console panels lay open.

“Matthew and I cleaned out the debris and fixed the comms, while you were gone,” Erhan said, anticipating his query.

“I see.”

Sigurd climbed into the cockpit and put on the neurohelmet. He was suddenly tired, and the muscles in his right side felt fatigued as he slumped down into the command couch. A small part of him was afraid the damage was already done or that the repair would not work. After a moment's hesitation, he activated the _Stormcrow's_ reactor. Either way, it did not really matter.

“You may feel some pain or discomfort as I calibrate the neurohelmet, ovkhan,” Erhan warned.

He sighed heavily. “Just so long as it works.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are suspicions.

Chapter 43

 

The noise and the colors subsided after Erhan's adjustments to the _Stormcrow's_ neurohelmet. The disturbance had not fully dissipated, and Sigurd worried that perhaps it never would, but his concentration was better, now. If there were any permanent effects, he would simply have to deal with them after the Trial. For the moment, he had to be ready.

His patrol had been uneventful, and a nest of raxx were the only living things he had encountered during the entire shift. He was glad for that. Having an opportunity to center himself ahead of combat was most welcome. Even with the neurohelmet recalibrated and the hole in his cockpit repaired, he still felt uneasy.

As he examined the place where the cockpit framing had been hastily hammered back into shape, an old memory flooded back into his mind, unbidden. He was ten and standing waist-deep in the river with his cousins, ripping open the shell of a young schildfisch for their lunch.

Planting, (or rather, this part of it), had once reminded Sigurd of Rotwelt. The strange constellations wheeling overhead dispelled that illusion, and revealed how very far from home he was. Yet as he approached the Wolves' temporary base, he felt that he was where he belonged.

Preparing for battle.

Techs scurried back and forth around the field repair racks, paying only the barest attention to the behemoth machine approaching, as they focused on their tasks. Several of them swarmed over Irene's _Glass Spider_ like desert scavengers, picking it clean of armor and any other components they could transplant into another 'Mech. The _Glass_ _Spider_ was not beyond hope, but the extent of the damage was too great for the technicians to repair in time for the next battle. They had to prioritize the 'Mechs they could restore to a degree of combat-readiness.

Sigurd eased off the throttle as he guided the _Stormcrow_ into position next to the husk of the _Glass_ _Spider,_ and lowered the OmniMech into a crouch. After a moment's hesitation, he powered down the reactor. When his connection to the _Stormcrow_ evaporated, there was no nausea or disorientation. He unhooked himself from the machine warily, expecting it to hit at any moment. Instead, he felt only the usual fragility of shedding the machine.

The moment he stepped onto the catwalk, a group of technicians swarmed his 'Mech, armed with tool kits and fresh armor panels to patch its wounds. Sigurd wove past them carefully, trying not to become an obstacle. When the rush stopped, he saw that the catwalk in front of the _Glass_ _Spider_ was empty except for a single figure.

“Irene?”

She stood with her arms hanging leaden at her sides, and stared unblinking at the cockpit of her skeletonized BattleMech. She did not seem to notice Sigurd.

“MechWarrior Irene.”

This time, she turned. Her expression was one of confusion, as if she did not quite know where she was or who had called to her. Presently, she seemed to return to her senses and saluted.

“S-Star Commander!” she said quickly. “I did not see you there. I apologize.”

Her inattention did not upset him, but it was worrisome coming from a typically observant warrior. He decided to let the matter be, for the present.

“How are your fingers?” Sigurd asked.

She appeared more focused as she listened, but there was a dullness in her eyes. Irene raised her left hand to show the splint on the outermost digits. “The medics took care of it. Everything will be fine.”

The breeze picked up then, and a shiver ran through him as the night air dried the sweat on his skin. Although the wind here was cold, it was nothing like the howling, knife-edged force that carved out the canyons of his homeworld.

“You should rest,” he said, and tugged the collar of his cooling suit closer to stave off the chill. “I may need you on a patrol shift, later.”

Her brow furrowed and her mouth twisted into a pained frown. “You would put me back in a 'Mech, ovkhan? After what happened, today?”

“You carried out your orders. You defeated your opponent,” he said.

Irene gave a reluctant nod and excused herself. Looking up again at the _Glass_ _Spider's_ metal carcass as she backed toward the stairs, she failed entirely to notice the huge warrior walking toward them, and turned around just in time to run into Erhan's chest. She bounced off, stared at him in daze, then hurried past without so much as a sneer of contempt.

Erhan paid her no mind, having long ago lost any curiosity about the behavior of trueborns, and jogged over to Sigurd. He saluted crisply; Sigurd returned it.

“How was your patrol, Star Commander?”

“Quiet,” Sigurd replied.

“Did the repairs help? With the neurohelmet, that is.”

Distressing visions of the worst possible effects an improperly calibrated neurohelmet could inflict raced through Sigurd's mind, and a sickening shudder passed through his body. He pushed those possibilities from his thoughts and turned away from Erhan.

“Aff.” He looked up at the _Glass_ _Spider_ as if it had suddenly captured his interest, worried that face might show his distress. “Your work appears to be successful.”

“It is? That is good to hear.” Erhan sighed in relief.

“What is the status of your BattleMech?” Sigurd continued, diverting the course of the conversation. The breeze shifted and he caught a whiff of an acrid, musty scent from Erhan's clothes. It was familiar, organic and... _burnt_. He wrinkled his nose at the lingering odor, which stood out against the greasy, synthetic smells of the 'Mechs.

“The repairs are not yet finished,” Erhan replied, “but the damage was relatively minor.”

“Do you require any assistance? I could have Irene help you.”

He frowned. “I think MechWarrior Irene would not like taking directions from me.”

“It does not matter what anyone likes. What _matters_ is ensuring that the work is finished—one way or another.”

“Of course, ovkhan. I did not mean to suggest...” Erhan rubbed at the tattoo around his right wrist. “I think with bondsman Matthew around, I have enough help. The _Shadow_ _Hawk_ suffered no internal or sensor damage, so the work is minor. Even if it is not finished, I will be perfectly able to fight.” His voice held no worry over the fact that the _Nova_ had shucked half the armor off his 'Mech's head.

“I see.”A faint seed of suspicion had been steadily growing in Sigurd's mind over the past month, and now began to sprout. “It seems that you and bondsman Matthew work quite well together.”

“Aff. As I said, he is quite helpful.”

Sigurd studied the warrior's face briefly. There was no hint of apprehension or anxiety in Erhan's face, only curiosity.

“Do you... have a question about his work?” Erhan asked.

“No. No, I had best let you get back to your repairs.”

As he watched the MechWarrior depart, Sigurd suddenly realized what the curious scent had been. _Cigarette smoke._

 

* * * * *

 

The lull between battles was like a long, uncomfortable pause in a sentence, filled at once with anticipation and dread. The sun had not yet risen, and what light spilled over the horizon bathed everything in an eerie pre-dawn glow. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath.

Sigurd exhaled slowly as he guided his _Stormcrow_ down a rocky slope, with his Starmates in tow. He kept a keen watch on his HUD, switching frequently to the infrared and magscan overlays, alert for the faintest trace of movement. With the threat of the Horses' very clever Gnomes, Lorna had instructed that anything big enough to register on their sensors should be shot until dead. A prudent order, he thought.

Her _Shadow_ _C_ _at_ trotted ahead of him, accompanied by the _Timber_ _Wolf_ and _Pouncer_ , and torso-twisted back and forth attentively as it moved. The Elementals onboard her 'Mech appeared comfortable in spite of its rapid movements, maintaining a relaxed-but-ready posture as they clung to the grab-bars on its hull. Sigurd glanced to his right, where the demonic silhouette of Tammi's battle armor loomed at the side of his cockpit. He did not need to look to know that she was there, for he could feel her weight at his shoulder, but it was reassuring to see her.

His sleep had been poor as his mind churned feverishly through the events of the past day. The Gnomes were in his nightmares, wreathed in blood and Planting's reddish dust. Every effort he made to fight them, however, was useless. His weapons would not fire. His 'Mech, and even his own limbs would not obey his commands. In the torrent of his dreams, he remembered that the neurohelmet had been damaged, and thought it must have damaged him, too. Unimpeded, the Horse warriors peeled back his _Stormcrow's_ armor, then peeled back his skin to crush his bones in their claws.

He forgot the dream almost as soon as he woke, but he remembered the terror and helplessness. The summons to battle came soon after. It was a welcome distraction from his worries.

After a long, grueling fight the previous day, Akela's forces had gouged the enemy BattleMech assets. The Hell's Horses' tanks, however, had prevented him from claiming total victory. They were primarily fielding Eponas—a Horse favorite—some Ares, and the occasional pair of Ku tanks. The former were the biggest headache for the Wolves. While their armor was thin, Eponas boasted a respectable weapons payload and tremendous speed. Not even the Wolves' _Ice_ _Ferrets_ could keep up with them, and in the open plains, that had become a problem. Rather than allow the tanks to wear them down, Akela's forces had withdrawn into the badlands during the night, where the vehicles did not care to follow. Since then, the two sides had been picking at each other whenever the opportunity arose.

Akela's voice was assured when he contacted Lorna, but it carried a note of weariness, too. Every gain they had made came at a cost to their own ranks. Consolidating their forces now would give them the strength for a fatal strike at the enemy.

The plan they followed now was straightforward: move up, attack the Horses' formation from the rear, and link up with the Star Colonel in the process. The tricky thing, of course, was that the Horses were smart and also very fast. That was a dangerous combination in an enemy.

“If I were in their position,” Sigurd had suggested earlier, “I would try to encircle our 'Mechs in the plains. Keep us from ever reaching the Star Colonel.”

“As would I,” Lorna agreed. “We will just have to slip through their net—or cut our way out.”

The terrain became less rugged as she led them east to join the Star Colonel. Mesas devolved into craggy hills, then gradually gave way to low dunes and the occasional jut of rock This was a far less favorable environment for the Wolves than the canyonland. It was too open, too exposed, and bordered by an impassable plateau to the east. Unfortunately, there was no way to entice the enemy to come to them. Hence the plan.

As Sigurd reached the crest of a dune, he noticed something flicker in the pale morning sunlight. He came to a halt and toggled the _Stormcrow's_ optical zoom for a better look. A mass of wreckage stretched out before them, strewn across the sand like the glittering pulp of a smashed fruit. It must have been a vehicle—a Ku, probably, judging by the wheels. The debris showed up as a cold, empty blue on the infrared overlay, even in temperature with the ground. Sigurd throttled up again, setting a cautious speed for his Star. More debris littered the sand just over the next dune: strips of track, the arm of a 'Mech, and scorched armor plates—all of it cold. They were nearing last night's battlefield.

There was a metallic _tap-tap_ to his right, and Sigurd turned to look out the viewport. Tammi motioned toward the wreckage with her gun arm, pointing to a particularly large piece of debris. He nodded in understanding, and gave it a wide berth. His Starmates followed suit, shifting from their previous wedge formation into a line, to better avoid the debris. The burned-out hull of a tank would make a convenient place for battle armor to hunker down overnight.

Sigurd then turned his attention to the ground, searching for traces of their opponents' movement. Footprints or track marks would be useful; hovercraft fans left a certain pattern in sand or vegetation, if one knew how to spot it. There was not much to be found, though. General signs of struggle could be seen where the wreckage or low hills created a windbreak, but any distinct trails were long gone.

Frustrated, he returned his gaze to the horizon, squinting against the slowly rising sun. There was a thick haze in the air, today. That was odd for a dry, cool desert morning.

Sigurd eased back on the _Stormcrow's_ throttle. _Not haze. Dust._

“Star Captain!”

“Aff, I see it,” Lorna replied, coming to a halt. A chirrup from her OmniMech's sensors echoed over the radio. “Two pairs of Eponas inbound, bearing 0-3-9. All units, weapons ready!”

“A distraction,” he surmised. “We must be nearing the main body.”

“Confirmed.” It was Elaine who spoke, now. “The Star Colonel's forces are one-point-five klicks out. Star Commander Melli reports that a mixed group of 'Mechs and tanks has broken off from the main body. They are heading our way.”

Lorna's _Shadow_ _Cat_ stomped its feet impatiently. “Shenna and I will take care of these tanks. Cora,” she ordered the _Timber_ _Wolf_ pilot, “group with the Star Commander.”

“Aff,” her subordinates chorused.

Then to Sigurd, she added, “Keep moving.”

“Aff, Star Captain.”

The _Pouncer_ and _Shadow_ _Cat_ bounded over a low dune, and galloped off to intercept the Eponas. Sigurd torso-twisted back to the face rest of the MechWarriors, and jerked his _Stormcrow's_ arm in a “with me” motion. He nudged his throttle up to a cruising speed as the _Timber_ _Wolf_ moved into formation, then turned northward. There was little chance of catching the Horses unawares, but cutting through the dunes would provide some cover.

As they neared the battle, a Ku tank briefly appeared on his sensors. It was an ugly and somehow toy-like vehicle, but mounted enough weaponry to preclude any mockery. The Ku was slower and much farther out than the other tanks the Horses were fielding, which made Sigurd incredibly suspicious.

“Orders, ovkhan?” asked Alger. Although he tried to temper it, his voice carried the impatient edge of a young hunter who had just spotted choice game.

“Leave it,” Sigurd responded curtly.

A vehicle like the Ku would be an excellent target for the much swifter _Lobo_ , if it was alone—but tanks never were. Engaging two targets at once could be a headache for even more seasoned warriors, and it was a good bet that the Horses, unlike other Clans, knew how to maximize this confusion.

There was a sudden chirp from his HUD, and the computer displayed a new target: a _Thresher_. The boxy, asymmetrical BattleMech was known as a solid but unremarkable design, and for serving as the progenitor of the much more menacing _Summoner_. Still, it was not to be underestimated. The _Thresher_ was not incredibly good at any one thing, but MASC, jumpjets, and a decent spread of weapons made it a respectable foe.

He considered trying to bypass the _Thresher_ as well, but it appeared to be heading toward them. Best to engage it on their own terms.

“Gunnar.”

“Aff, lead?”

“Take it out.”

A low, bloodthirsty chuckle reverberated over the line. “Copy.”

The _Mad_ _Dog_ split from their formation and loped off in the direction of the _Thresher_.

“Ovkhan!” It was Alger again. “Two Ku are advancing on our position.”

“Copy that.” He gave a sigh. It looked like they were going to have to punch their way through to join the Star Colonel, after all. “Cora, dispatch them quickly, and return.”

A loud crack split the air, drowning out the MechWarior's reply, and a burst of shrapnel pelted the back of Sigurd's 'Mech. Damage indicators flashed on his HUD. One of the Elementals, hit by a chunk of debris, lost her hold and tumbled to the ground. Sigurd staggered to a halt, trying desperately not to step on the dislodged warrior as she picked herself up. The rest of the Star scattered to avoid getting caught by a subsequent blast.

“What the hell was _that?_ ” he gasped, swinging the _Stormcrow's_ torso around.

To his left, the _Lobo_ tottered on its spindly legs, taking one more step as its momentum carried it forward, before collapsing onto its knees. With a groan, it fell over onto its side limply, metal and fluid streaming out of the semicircular wound that grazed what had once been its head.

“Alger, respond,” Sigurd hailed. Looking back at the bleeding _Lobo_. “Alger...”

“Star Commander,” Melli's icy voice interrupted. “Be advised, the Trial has gone to mêlée combat. Repeat: this is now a _mêlée_.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the trap is sprung.

Chapter 44

 

A ripple traveled through the battlefield as zellbrigen decayed. He could see it, _feel it_ , as Horse and Wolf alike rapidly adjusted their tactics. Comm chatter spiked. So too, would the ferocity of the Trial. He had seen BattleROMs of Clan engagements that devolved in such a way. It was ugly fighting.

_Scheisse._

Even as he swore to himself, he spun his 'Mech around and dropped it into a crouch. The _Stormcrow's_ nose swung up as he yanked back on the control sticks and located Alger's attacker through the veil of dust: a _Glass_ _Spider_. As he watched the Horse pace along the top of a rocky hill, anger surged through him. That was good. He would need it.

“All Points, sitrep!”

Erhan answered first. “No damage. Resuming formation.”

“I am undamaged,” reported Cora. “All systems are good.”

“Still engaging the _Thresher,_ with a point of _Eponas_ inbound on my position. Just who the hell started this fiasco?” Gunnar snarled.

That was something that Sigurd very much wished to find out, as well. With their greater numbers, single combat was advantageous to the Horses. They had to know that. He doubted that a veteran unit such as this would be so sloppy as to give away their edge.

“Cora,” he said, declining to share his thoughts with the others, “reinforce Gunnar's position.”

“Aff, lead.” The _Timber_ _Wolf_ turned crisply and loped off.

“Sabreen reports moderate damage,” Tammi said, informing him of the Elemental who had just been dislodged, “but no injuries. The rest of us are undamaged.”

“Stay down,” he ordered. “I will return for you.”

Sigurd throttled up and wheeled back around toward the _Lobo_ , firing off a hasty shot of his pulse laser at the looming Horse 'Mech as he moved. Out of range and wildly off-target, but it got the point across. Another gauss round cracked through the air in reply. It missed him, much more narrowly than his own shot had missed, and the distant shadow of the _Glass_ _Spider_ disappeared down the side of the hill it had climbed.

With the _Glass_ _Spider's_ threat momentarily abated, he paused to allow Sabreen back on board.

“Star Commander!” the Elemental hailed him, urgent and breathless, as she grabbed onto his 'Mech once more. “The pilot— The _Lobo_ pilot is still alive!”

“What?”

“Aff! He looks in very bad shape, ovkhan. He may not survive long, but for now, he is alive.”

“Hail the medics directly,” he ordered. “Tell them everything you observed.”

Sigurd glanced fretfully at the _Lobo_. It felt wrong to leave while Alger was still alive—for however short a time—but there was nothing he could do. Besides that, the _Glass_ _Spider_ or some other enemy unit would be gunning for him any moment.

He opened a private channel to Erhan. “You fought the Horses. They are honorable, quiaff? Do you think they will leave the _Lobo_ and our medtechs alone?”

“Aff. Even in a mêlée, I do not think they would interfere.” There was an edginess in Erhan's voice. “I do not like the Horses, but I suppose their sense of honor is not too different from ours. I suggest, however, that we all refrain from physical attacks on their tanks.”

“Explain.”

A pause. “It makes them _angry_.”

Sigurd turned north, pressing down on the _Stormcrow's_ throttle, and resist ed the impulse to look back at the _Lobo_. Erhan followed him.

“We must to move quickly,” he said. “Stay close. Once we get into the open, the tanks will try to separate and corral us.”

“Star Commander,” Tammi hailed him. “I have a suggestion, if you care to hear it.”

“Not a good time for formality,” he replied, glancing at his HUD apprehensively. His radar displayed enemy unit markers in all directions. Lorna and Shenna's radar signatures were no longer visible, and Akela's forces were still out of sensor range. “If you have advice, I want it.”

“Drop us,” she said hurriedly. “Our presence makes you a bigger target, and you will maneuver better without the extra weight.”

The Horses knew that battle armor was a threat to be dealt with quickly, and that meant they would pay a lot more attention to Sigurd than he liked. Additionally, the increased surface area, heat, and metal would make him more visible to radar, magscan and infrared.

“There is a burned-out Ku just ahead,” Tammi continued. “Unload us there. We can hole up in the wreckage and cover you.”

“Aff,” Sigurd agreed.

He slowed as he passed the wreckage, and the Elementals dismounted. When Sigurd spared a glance to check that they had all landed safely, they had already disappeared into the carcass of the Ku. He throttled up again, keeping pace with Erhan, and switched on the infrared overlay. As they wove through the sand dunes and scattered piles of metal, he scanned the debris carefully. The bits of tanks and 'Mechs that littered the area were no warmer than the surrounding landscape, however, which gave him some measure of relief.

Ahead, a mixed group of hovertanks were speeding across the open plains, leaving reddish plumes of dust in their wake. Radar showed a few others in the distance—probably Ares—but they were hulled down in the dunes, making the hovers a more immediate threat. Through the dust in the air, he could discern the shapes of BattleMechs moving up and down the rocks on the other side of the plains.

“Get ready to sprint,” Sigurd instructed his Starmate. The muscles in his legs tightened as he prepared to push the _Stormcrow_ into a flat-out run.

“I think the tanks just spotted us,” Erhan muttered, stalking forward beside him.

Sigurd took a deep breath, steadying his nerves as the vehicles swung around toward them. “Full-throttle,” he said. “Return fire, but do not linger on any of them.”

The two of them broke into a gallop as they cleared the last heaps of charred metal, and were immediately met with a flurry of ordnance from the tanks. Most of it missed. A few of the hurried shots grazed their armor. The _Shadow Hawk_ lit its jumpjets, taking advantage of its current momentum to propel itself forward in a long leap, ruining the Horses' shots.

Sigurd drilled his pulse lasers into anything near enough to hit and managed to tear into the engine of at least one tank. If he or Erhan crippled any of the others, he did not notice. At present, his only care was speed.

 _One more klick,_ he told himself, wetting his lips with his tongue. _Then—_

A burst of autocannon fire grazed across the _Stormcrow's_ torso, the noise drowning out his thoughts like a thunderclap. The OmniMech stumbled forward, reeling from the blow, and Sigurd felt as though he'd taken an uppercut to the jaw. Shaking his head, he shifted his weight to re-center the machine. Heat began to rise in the cockpit.

“Critical hit,” the computer lazily informed him of the cause. “ _Engine_.”

The _Stormcrow's_ sensors showed more tanks moving in on his position, scenting blood. He throttled up quickly and fired a hurried burst of his pulse lasers to discourage them. A blue streak flashed across his peripheral vision suddenly, and he glanced after it just in time to see an Epona drop to the ground and slide, un-powered, as electricity curled across its hull. Sigurd turned his head again quickly, tracing the PPC's trajectory back to its origin. An _Ice_ _Ferret_ in Theta colors stood at the crest of a craggy hill, the barrel of it left arm still glowing hot.

The Wolf 'Mech zipped down the slope and into the open to strafe a new target; as it passed, he could see that it was carrying a Point of Elementals. The Horses must have noticed this, as well, and immediately scattered from it. Sigurd leaned on the control stick, turning hard to move into the path that the _Ice Ferret_ had cleared before the tanks could regroup. Erhan followed him, and the two quickly weaved their way between the rocks and craggy hills now rising up from the plains. The tanks did not pursue.

Sigurd spared a moment to check his armor readouts as they cautiously proceeded into the badlands. The right side of the _Stormcrow's_ torso was marred from the autocannon, but not breached. An armor spall must have hit the engine. Diagnostics showed that one of the double heatsinks was ruined.

 _Not terminal. Just highly inconvenient_ , he assessed, guiding the _Stormcrow_ past the ruins of a Bellona.

The Horse tank lay nearly unscathed but for its hatch, which was ringed by claw marks and bashed inward. Glancing down a gorge to his left, he spotted the wreckage of another hovertank—probably the first one's Pointmate. Scarred by laser fire. Hatch punched in. _Elementals_.

“Like the worst caltrops you could imagine,” he recalled Mira telling him with a grin.

A nagging thought that had roamed the back of his mind all day now made its way to the forefront. He had not seen any sign of the Horses' battle armor since that harrowing encounter with the Gnomes, yesterday. One part of him hoped to keep it that way. Another part of him worried greatly.

His focus snapped to the _Stormcrow's_ sensors and his finger moved to the trigger as something flickered across his radar. That was their only warning before the fight spilled like a flood out of a ravine ahead of them. A battered Wolf _Ice_ _Ferret_ was the first through the passage, followed by a _Pouncer_ , with a Horse _Nova_ and _Mad Dog_ in furious pursuit. A battered, one-armed _Summoner_ thundered into the open next, being chased itself by a Wolf _Stormcrow_.

“We have made contact with the Command Binary, Star Captain,” Sigurd radioed. He gave a quick report of what had transpired since they parted.

“Copy that,” Lorna replied. The signal was a bit poor and slightly delayed, owing to the terrain, but she sounded well enough over the static. “Shenna and I just regrouped with the others. We will proceed to your position and finish off any straggling units. ETA: two minutes.”

Sigurd flicked his 'Mech's arm to signal Erhan, and the two of them split up. The _Shadow Hawk_ took a running leap onto the nearest hill while he ducked behind a series of rock pillars. The other 'Mechs had begun to disperse, as well. The _Ice Ferret_ darted around a bend while the _Pouncer_ leapt up onto a high ledge and squeezed off a shot of one ER PPC into the _Nova's_ shoulder. The Horse 'Mech quickly turned and leapt after its attacker, only to receive a blast of ions through the back of the head, courtesy of the _Ice_ _Ferret_. The dead _Nova_ tumbled down into the ravine with a hideous metallic _crunch_. The _Pouncer_ swiveled its cyclopean head around to focus on Sigurd's 'Mech for an instant, before leaping after the _Summoner_ which had just kneecapped of the _Stormcrow_ chasing it.

“Star Commander, how good of you to join us,” Akela's voice rumbled over the comm, a spark of humor in it. His tone quickly faded to seriousness. “Take care of the _Mad Dog_. Quickly.”

“Aff, ovkhan.” To Erhan, he radioed, “Keep it distracted.”

Erhan began to harass the _Mad Dog_ with his large lasers, leaping back and forth atop the hills and more stable rock formations, to keep it guessing. It was difficult for Sigurd to tell what kind of damage his Starmate was doing, but anything to keep the enemy pilot annoyed and unbalanced worked in their favor. If the A-config _Stormcrow_ was a knife-fighter, then the _Mad Dog_ was a halberdier—Sigurd could eviscerate it, but only if he managed to get close enough.

As Sigurd drew closer, Erhan's attacks became more aggressive, in order to hold the _Mad Dog's_ focus. The _Shadow_ _Hawk_ fired both of its large lasers, then disappeared behind a twisting wall of sandstone. A little risky, Sigurd thought, since it produced more heat than the 'Mech could sink. But Erhan's aim had been good. One beam grazed the _Mad Dog's_ narrow torso; the other sliced through its left shoulder. The limb went slack, its joint ruined, and hung limply at the _Mad Dog's_ side.

“Ovkhan,” Erhan hailed him, reappearing on a high jut of rock. “Turn into the ravine on your two-o'clock, and you will be directly behind it.”

“Copy that.”

Sigurd hit the throttle and burst from cover, ducking low in case the enemy 'Mech happened to turn at that moment. The _Mad Dog_ was standing at the crest of a hill, and twisted back in his direction as soon as it sensed him, rotating its right arm around for a shot. He swung the _Stormcrow's_ left arm up and pulled the trigger flat, pumping his pulse lasers into the _Mad Dog's_ boxy hip. The _Mad Dog_ tottered back, its own pulse lasers spearing through the empty air above the _Stormcrow's_ hunched shoulders. It took another wobbling step as it turned to face him, and slashed his 'Mech across the nose. With the familiar _pri-i-ing_ of a missile lock in his ears, Sigurd fired off both racks of his streak SRMs into its body. The _Mad Dog_ lost its footing under the impact, slipped backward, and tumbled down the other side of the hill.

“Target immobilized,” Erhan reported.

Sigurd withdrew cautiously, turning back the way he had come, and glanced to his sensors. “It is dead, _quineg?_ ”

“Neg. Reactor's still online. Its hip is too damaged for it to stand, though.”

“Aff. Leave it.” No sense in wasting time on something that could not follow them. “Support the Star Colonel.”

Akela and the _Ice Ferret_ pilot were still in a running battle with the _Summoner_ , trying to wear it down. Like hounds after a stag. Once Erhan joined, the three quickly cornered their target in a gully. One or the other of them—Sigurd could not see for the rocks—sliced through the _Summoner's_ leg. It hobbled a little on the wounded limb and fired off a last, bitter shot of its PPC before falling.

The three Wolves moved back out of the gully, with the Star Colonel's _Pouncer_ in the lead. The fight had cost it the use of its left arm, which now hung limp at its side. Far from ideal for a 'Mech with just three weapons. Sigurd moved to join them.

“Form on me,” Akela ordered. When everyone had given their acknowledgement, the Star Colonel opened a private channel to him. “As soon as Star Captain Lorna checks in, we strike.”

“Copy that. Are the eight of us all that are left?”

“Neg. Melli and I were separated when those Horse Omnis showed up. She and the others are in position,” he said. “We outnumber their 'Mech forces, now.”

Sigurd glanced out the cockpit to the _Pouncer_ beside him. “The mêlée appears to have worked in our favor,” he said carefully.

“Aff.” Akela's voice was perfectly even. “How fortunate that the Horses started one.”

 

* * * * *

The first moments after the signal came were a blur of ordnance and adrenaline and blood. The _Stormcrow's_ cockpit was oppressively hot, and the air inside felt almost too thick to breathe. Icy bands curled across his skin like worms, accompanied by a low _thrumm_ that echoed through his body as the cooling suit worked double-time to keep him from overheating. He barely registered the sweat rolling down his face or the taste of salt on his lips. What he did notice was the muffled clunk that told him the SRMs had reloaded, the shrill of the missile lock, and the feeling of the trigger under his finger.

As Sigurd turned away from the hovertank he had just gutted, a glob of pinkish-blue light hit the sand near the _Stormcrow's_ feet, burning fast and leaving a pool of molten glass as it disappeared. An Ares had rolled up to the crest of a dune at his two-o'clock. He swung his 'Mech's torso around to fire a burst of his pulse lasers into its tracks, severing the links. Unable to withdraw, the Ares swiveled its turret after him and fired its plasma cannon again. This time, it hit the _Stormcrow's_ left shoulder.

His speed dropped harshly as the _Stormcrow_ grew sluggish from the heat spike. The computer began protesting loudly. Sigurd tuned out its shutdown warnings and hit the override as he rocked and twisted the 'Mech's torso in attempts to shake off any of the gooey plastic fuel that might have remained on his hull. He could feel the _Stormcrow's_ myomers straining to carry its bulk to full speed as he opened the throttle. It managed only a haggard jog, but that was enough to move him out of the crippled Ares' front weapons arc.

Panting, he circled around a low hill to keep the tank from getting another shot at him while his heat sinks choked through the excess. Plasma cannons couldn't even scratch a 'Mech's armor, but the heat could be fatal. Lorna's _Shadow Cat_ raced past him as he paused, and she carved into the Ares with her lasers before a Horse _Nova_ demanded her attention. The _Nova_ clawed her torso open, and she delivered a gauss slug to its gut in response. Rather than moving out of range, however, Lorna veered toward the other 'Mech. A burst of speed from her MASC system pushed it out of the _Nova's_ reach and into its six-o'clock. She did not linger to fight it, though. Instead, the Elementals she carried leapt from the _Shadow Cat_ and onto the _Nova_.

It broke into a gallop, bucking and turning, nearly stumbling over the wreckage of another 'Mech in a frenzied attempt to dislodge the Elementals. Armor flaked from its hide even as it ran, carved off by the Wolves biting into its hull. In a last, desperate maneuver, the Horse rocketed up on its jumpjets. One of the Elementals lost their hold, bounced off the hull, and fell into the flame of the _Nova's_ jumpjets. Another Elemental kicked in the cockpit ferroglass and fired their pulse laser through the breach.

Lobotomized, the _Nova_ sank to the ground. The surviving Elementals jumped clear, then immediately rushed back to the fallen 'Mech for cover. A pair of hovertanks swung around suddenly, spitting fire at the _Nova's_ carcass in attempts to flush out the Wolves. They retreated further into the cover of its limbs. By this time, Lorna had become entangled in a sniping match with a Horse _Glass_ _Spider,_ and was in no position to return for them.

Sigurd settled his crosshairs over one of the tanks. The reticule rotated lazily for a moment, scanning, then flashed red with a lock. He squeezed the trigger, unloading a flight of LRMs into his target. The missiles ripped through its hull and it careened into its partner, sending them both skidding across the ground. The Elementals took that as their chance, and pounced upon the nearest one. His thoughts turned briefly to Tammi's Point, but they were under Elaine Sradac's command, not his.

Clearing his head, Sigurd popped out of cover and moved to join Erhan in attacking a _Thresher_. Akela and his Starmate in the _Ice_ _Ferret_ were a little farther ahead, spearheading the push south. On the other side of the field, Gunnar and Cora were pressing north as they alternated their attention between a quartet of tanks and a large, chunky design that the computer identified as a _Grizzly_.

Gunnar stabbed at the Horse 'Mech, then retreated a short distance and began needling the tanks again. His _Mad Dog,_ despite its name, was not meant for dogfights. It looked rather haggard from its earlier brawl, and certainly would not survive another. Cora moved up to engage the approaching 'Mech while Gunnar kept the tanks at bay. He laid into one, then the other with his missiles. Swiveling around to a third Epona, he snapped out the _Mad Dog's_ arm and sliced into it with his large pulse lasers. The beams gored its engine.

Already moving at its top speed, sheer momentum carried the Epona forward. It grazed the leg of Akela's _Pouncer_ , tearing through armor and myomer, before finally slamming into a dune. The injured _Pouncer_ went down with a thunderous crash and landed on its left shoulder. Its arm snapped at the joint.

Sigurd glanced over to see Akela working to pull the _Pouncer's_ limbs under its body and stand. Nearby, the Epona shifted oddly and three brutish grey figures skittered away from the hovertank's carcass. They first appeared somewhat disoriented from the crash, but quickly shook it off when their attention fell to the _Pouncer_.

The _Ice_ _Ferret_ turned to help, but stopped short when an Ares drenched it in plasma. Akela was alone now, a perfect target. The Gnomes lit their jumpjets and leap-frogged toward his _Pouncer_.

 _They are going to kill him,_ Sigurd mused, his attention still largely occupied by the _Thresher_ bearing down on him. _And then,_ came another, more urgent thought, _there will be nothing to stop Helina from killing me—or worse_.

He swung the _Stormcrow's_ right arm up and hastily fired off his LRMs. It was a sloppy shot, and easily half of the salvo missed, but it forced the _Thesher_ to pause. Swearing under his breath and trusting Erhan to press the attack, Sigurd spun around and bolted for fallen _Pouncer_.

He caught one of the Gnomes by surprise with a series of pulse lasers through its back. The nearest one unloaded both of its SRMs into his _Stormcrow's_ leg, then bolted toward him and lit its jumpjets, making a bold leap right for his cockpit. Sigurd jerked away, his 'Mech nearly tripping over its own feet, and the Gnome fell short.

Sensing his intent, the other Gnomes turned to face him and stood their ground, firing off their SRMs in sequence. The one closest to Akela's 'Mech made a mad, leaping dash for its cockpit. They knew who the _Pouncer_ pilot was, and they knew the Trial would end much sooner without him. A metallic squeal and a warning on Sigurd's HUD indicated that another pair of missiles had hit him. This time, it had punched open his torso armor. He ignored it, firing after the battle armor with his pulse lasers and failing entirely to hit the small, quick-moving thing. And now he had lost his window to do so. If he fired again, he risked shooting Akela, himself.

Sigurd floored the throttle, thundering after the Gnome. It leapt again, both to evade him and get closer to the _Pouncer_ . He raised the _Stormcrow's_ left arm, flexed its hand open, and swung the 'Mech's arm out . There was a loud _ka-thonk_ as metal hit metal, followed by a spray of gritty red dirt. Sigurd didn't check to see if the Gnome trooper was still alive; he knew he couldn't have killed them so easily. Instead, he planted the _Stormcrow's_ foot on top of the fallen Gnome, and then turned back to face the rest of the Point.

To say they were incensed was an understatement worthy of Gunnar. His attack had shaken them off their assault on the _Pouncer_ , though, and that was what he needed. He could hear the groan of its actuators as it stood. A moment later, one of the charging Gnomes vanished into shrapnel under a PPC. Sigurd tracked his pulse lasers over another Gnome, then toggled off the Streak system on his SRMs and blindly fired a salvo at the ground in hopes that the splash would injure them, if nothing else.

He backpedaled, pouring all of his weapons into them in a bitter, near-panicked attempt to ensure that the hated things died. When the computer finally threatened a shutdown, he ceased, gasping for breath and feeling as though his heart might pound out of his chest. Sigurd realized then that the Gnomes' attack had not only breached his armor, but nicked his engine and ruined another heat sink.

As he noticed this, he also noticed that the _Thresher_ he and Erhan had been fighting moments ago was moving in his direction. He began to turn, much too late. The _Thresher_ twisted to face him, and fired.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which blood is drawn.

Chapter 45

 

The _Stormcrow_ died not with a roar but a whimper. There was a sharp pounding noise when the autocannon pierced its armor and its heart. After that, the only sound at all beyond the din of battle was something like a very heavy sigh as the shielding of its engine failed and the fusion reaction collapsed.

All the OmniMech's power evaporated. Sigurd felt a sudden, crushing tightness in his chest, as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. Unable to breathe, unable to feel the 'Mech, unable to feel his own body, all his senses seemed to fade into static.

Memories poured into his brain, sharp and acidic. Planting, Traion, Virentofta. Staring down the barrels of the _Thresher's_ guns. The _Archer_ disintegrating beneath him. His _Dervish_ being cut down. Evil-looking battle armor and snarling human faces. Stubby arms that ended in metal claws and rough, calloused hands gripping his limbs so hard they bruised. Needles in his skin. Molten metal in his veins. Wolves and monsters with the shapes of men.

The burning in his lungs brought him back to the present. He gasped for breath—coughed and hacked when the thick, damp air pooled in his throat—and tried to lean forward, only to be jerked back into the command couch by the harness. He lay there for a moment, too tired to fight it, and wondered how much time he had lost. Maybe he hadn't woken up yet, after all.

He felt so... _hollow_.

“I've heard it said that pain is the only true sign we are alive,” his mother had once told him. “But checking your pulse is just as easy.”

Sigurd pulled the glove off his right hand and pressed his fingers to his wrist; his pulse was regular if a little quick. Alive _and_ awake. Good. He inhaled deeply and tried to regulate his breathing until it slowed. While his head felt a bit fuzzy, the rest of him felt a little better after that. A little more real. He turned his attention to his surroundings next.

There was no longer any sound of weapons' fire from outside the cockpit, though he could still feel a familiar rumbling through the _Stormcrow's_ hull from the heavy footfalls of 'Mechs. The steps seemed unhurried, though, and fewer. The Trial must have ended. He lifted his head to look out the top portion of the cockpit canopy and saw only an expanse of red. Sigurd frowned. His 'Mech had landed on its side, and he was looking at the ground.

Hesitantly, he removed the neurohelmet. Part of him kept hoping that there was still a spark of energy in the _Stormcrow_ , but hoping never made things so. Sigurd unbuckled the safety harness next and tumbled out of the command couch. He landed clumsily on his hands and knees, halfway on the control console and halfway on the ferroglass of the canopy, and hissed as pain shot through his right arm. He sat up stiffly and moved back off of the canopy. His arm ached with a deep, pulsing pain, starting in the shoulder and radiating outward.

He clenched his fists to check that he still could, then fumbled for his canteen and drained it quickly while he considered his next course of action. The water was disgustingly warm and tasted a bit like plastic, but he was too thirsty to care. As he drank, he finally registered how hot and humid the cockpit had become. His cooling suit was still chilly against his skin, but that would not last. He needed to leave. What he would do once he was out of the cockpit, he was not entirely sure. That all depended on who had won, he supposed, but there was no reason to remain inside a dead 'Mech.

Sigurd opened the canopy as far as it would go and squeezed out of the cockpit gracelessly. He stumbled into the open, unsteady and squinting against the morning light like a newborn lamb. Shielding his eyes, he looked around for any sign of the other Wolves.

Little blips of memory burned across his mind as he surveyed the landscape, like the flashes of tracer rounds. Bits and pieces of the morning's battle wove through his thoughts unwanted, interspersed with memories of Rotwelt. Sigurd wet his chapped lips with his tongue, and pressed his fingers to his pulse again. This place looked so much like his homeworld. He could hardly wait to leave it.

Turning to the south, he spotted a Wolf-brown _Mad_ _Dog_ a few hundred meters away, lying prone on its side: Gunnar's 'Mech. One of its spindly legs had been sheared off below the knee.

Farther afield, he could make out a humanoid 'Mech moving in a patrol pattern. A _Summoner_? No, a _Hellbringer_. The machine lumbered forward with a shaky step, leaning its weight onto its right leg. The other leg was stripped nearly to the bone and its left arm was missing, sparks spitting from what remained of the limb. It was difficult to tell whether it was Horse or Wolf at this distance; red dust and plasma burns obscured whatever paint scheme it wore. Sigurd crouched down in the shade of the _Stormcrow's_ body and watched the 'Mech shamble across the field. When it turned away from him, he rose into a half-crouch and moved south, sticking to the shadow of the _Stormcrow_.

There was a rumble of an ICE vehicle nearby. Just as Sigurd began to look for it, he rounded the nose of his 'Mech and came face-to-face with two strangers. Their uniforms were white though dust-stained, and striped with the garish, reflective patterning that Clan medics wore in the field to keep warriors from confusing them for targets. Sigurd came to a halt and began to back away, until he caught sight of the snarling Wolf's head stitched into the shoulders of their uniforms.

The leftmost of the pair muttered something into his radio, while his partner, a massive woman bigger than Elaine, took a step forward. She gave their names—Tuula and Lee—and asked him his own and his rank. Sigurd gave it. Lee repeated that into the radio. Tuula scanned his codex bracelet and asked more questions.

_What is your unit? What is today's date? Do you know where you are? Have you suffered any head trauma? Have you sustained any other injuries?_

“I am fine,” he bit out. Not strictly a lie. His shoulder hurt, but it was probably just a sprain. “I need to contact my superiors.”

“We have already contacted them, Star Commander,” Tuula soothed.

“Yes, but I—”

His protest ceased when he noticed someone else approaching. The man caught sight of him, and stopped as if he'd reached a wall. Sigurd stared at him. He stared back. The look on his face was one of fear, now slowly fading. It was not fear _of_ him, though. It was fear for—

“What are you doing here, bondsman?” Sigurd asked, with less venom than usual. He was too tired for it, now.

Matthew's lips pressed into a thin line beneath stubble that was gradually turning into a beard. “Heard your 'Mech got knocked out,” he said. “The medics said I could come along if I stayed out of the way. Thought that... I dunno. You might need somethin'.”

The beast's presence weighed heavily on him then, as if it was sitting on his shadow and slowly, slowly crushing him. _Where was he, when you needed him before?_

Sigurd said nothing, but watched Matthew for a moment more before returning his attention to the medics. They continued their examination, checking his pupils, and poking and prodding him until they were satisfied with his condition. He bit his tongue and tried not to flinch when Tuula pressed her fingers against his sternum. That still hurt.

“Star Commander,” Lee said finally, “we are ready to leave.”

Sigurd spared a last look at the _Stormcrow_ , then followed after the medics with the distinct sensation that he was leaving something important behind. Matthew kept pace beside him. Wordlessly, the man reached down to his hip and unclipped the canteen from his belt, then offered it to Sigurd.

“You realize,” he said, making no move to take the canteen, “that your bondservice does not end upon my death.”

No reply.

“If I am killed, your bond will be turned over to the Clan—or to any warrior I may designate in such an event.”

“I know.”

 

* * * * *

 

The ride back was filled by an almost palpable silence. Occasionally, Sigurd would feel Matthew's eyes on him, but the bondsman never offered to make conversation. Neither did he. All he could think about was the hole in his senses, the frailty in his limbs, and the lightness in his blood. He tried to focus instead on the perspiration still clinging to his skin or the weight and texture of his cooling suit—any tactile sensation he could use to anchor himself to his own body.

 _Only in my mind,_ he told himself. _It is only in my mind. There is nothing wrong with me._

When they finally arrived at camp, Sigurd departed before either Matthew or the medics could waylay him. Several pristine BattleMechs prowled around the perimeter of the temporary base: members of Julian's Binary, who were now tasked with security. Sigurd watched them for a moment, wondering if there had been a threat to warrant such action in the wake of the Trial or if it was simple caution. He had more pressing questions, though, and made his way to the command post, feeling the ponderous rumble of the defender's steps through the ground as he walked.

He hesitated briefly at the doorway, then steeled his nerves and entered. Technicians breezed past him, paying him no heed beyond the obstacle he presented. He spotted Lorna and Elaine seated at a table not far from the door. Judging by their appearance (sweating, disheveled, dusty), he estimated they had returned from the field quite recently. At the moment, they were dividing their attention between their datapads and the pot of stew between them.

Akela was farther inside, standing in front of a trid display. He was still dressed in his cooling suit with his neurohelmet in hand, and looked every bit as sweat-soaked and grungy as the rest of them. His shoulders were squared back and his chin lifted slightly, though—confident and self-assured.

From this distance, Sigurd could not quite tell what he was saying. He squared his own posture and cut through the crowd to join the two Star Captains. Lorna looked up as he sat, her expression mildly surprised but largely fatigued, and slid an empty bowl to him. Sigurd thanked her with a nod as she returned to her reading; he then tried surreptitiously to focus on Akela's conversation.

“You fought well,” Akela said, addressing a figure rendered in light.

The Horse commander was still for just an instant—lag—then tossed his head, whipping his long, sweat-soaked hair out of his face. “Do not think we are blind to your tricks, Wolf,” he snorted.

“What trick?”

“Starting a mêlée.”

“It was one of your warriors who violated zellbrigen,” he replied.

The Horse's eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “This arrogance will be the death of your Clan.”

Akela said nothing, but smiled—closed mouth, and more serene than smug.

The opposing commander did not quite seem to know what to make of that. In a low voice strained by anger, he said, “I will make arrangements to begin transferring your isorla, immediately.”

“I appreciate your promptness in these matters, Star Colonel.”

He regarded Akela silently for a moment. “The Trial is ended, but this is far from over,” he said, and did not elaborate. “Seidman, out.”

The connection closed and the Star Colonel's visage dissolved. Akela stared after the ghost of the image and grunted in displeasure.

“Surprised you did not twist the knife a bit more,” Elaine said, before shoveling more stew into her mouth.

“I think I already have, _quiaff?_ ” Akela set his neurohelmet down on a nearby crate, then sank down into a chair. He unzipped his cooling suit halfway and shrugged his arms out of it as he slumped further down into his seat. Akela tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “They accepted _hegira_ 1.”

“Mm.” Elaine glanced back at Sigurd. “Going to eat?”

“Oh. Aff.” Strangely, he was not at all hungry. In fact, the very idea of food was distinctly unpleasant at the moment. He filled his bowl, anyway, and slowly began to eat against the protests of his nerves. As he did so, he noticed that Akela had cracked one eye open to watch him. The Star Colonel looked about to speak, but another voice cut him off.

“Founder's _blood_.” Star Captain Julian stood at the doorway, shirt collar pulled up over his nose, and looking very, very hesitant to enter. “I think there is no worse smell than a bunch of sweaty Wolves. All of you, please shower immediately.”

“I would, if I did not think I might fall asleep and drown,” Akela sighed, making no move to get up. He closed his eyes again. “And I do not wish to give the Galaxy Commander that kind of satisfaction.”

A shiver traveled down Sigurd's spine at the mention of her. Helina Kerensky had given him no explicit deadline, but he had a sinking feeling that she would expect results very soon. _And I have nothing to show her..._

“Now,” Akela continued, still looking on the verge of sleep, “I know you have not come here just to pester me. Much as I might enjoy that...”

“Star Commander Gemma has relieved Star Commander Melli of her patrol,” Julian reported dispassionately. “The medics have just finished their rounds, and all Wolf personnel are accounted for—none missing. Salvage operations are continuing on schedule, though I expect them to proceed more quickly once we receive our new techs from the Horses. It is also my recommendation that any capable bondsmen be put on salvage detail, once they are processed.”

“Aff. Do that,” Akela agreed.

Elaine picked up an empty bowl and waved it in Julian's direction, hoping to entice him past the doorway with the promise of food.

“ _No_.” He pulled a datapad out of the thigh pocket on his trousers and tapped at it quickly. There was a chirp from Elaine's direction. “I can do everything from right here,” Julian said.

“Have it your way,” she muttered, and got out her own datapad. She stabbed at it with one blunt finger, looking increasingly glum as she scrolled through the amber text. “The casualty rate is not to my liking...”

“What were our losses?” Sigurd asked quickly. The question had been digging at him since he discovered that he was not dead himself.

Elaine cocked her head. “Oh! That is right, your 'Mech was destroyed,” she said with typical warrior tact. “No wonder you are not up to speed...”

He drew himself up straighter in his chair when the others turned toward him, and tried not to let shame color his expression too greatly. _Bare your throat and someone will be there to sink their fangs into it,_ a familiar voice cautioned. “I am sure we will fully debrief later, but for the moment, I wish to know the state of my Star.”

“The material loss rate is very poor,” Lorna said, and handed her datapad to him. “The casualty rate, however, is within acceptable parameters.”

Sigurd scrolled down through the roster. Erhan had returned unharmed, and Gunnar suffered only minor injuries—probably from a rough landing after ejection. Then he came to Alger's listing. There was a small notation beside the warrior's name to indicate that he was presently in surgery. Sigurd was not especially versed in medical terminology—certainly not in English—but it looked grim.

Sigurd rubbed his eyes, frustrated. There was nothing he could do but wait. He scrolled through the rest of the unit. Lorna's Star was worse for wear, but no one had perished. Akela's Binary had suffered much worse: four casualties, including one death. Surprisingly, the Elementals and their escorts were better off than Sigurd had dared to hope. Tammi had returned, safely, for which he was glad. He noticed, however, that a familiar name was missing.

“Mira?” he asked aloud in confusion.

“A _Nova_ ,” Elaine explained. “She lost her grip when it jumped. Fell into its jets.”

Sigurd's skin went cold as a memory snapped into sharp relief. _I saw it happen,_ he realized. _I watched her die, and I did not even know._ He had no idea how to feel about that. At the moment, the only thing his brain could muster was shock. He supposed that, unconsciously, he had expected Mira to live forever—through sheer force of will, if nothing else.

“A shame,” said Elaine. She sounded more disappointed than bereaved. “A Shaw bloodright opened up just before the Trial. I was looking forward to watching her compete.”

They had not been friends. Even so, part of him felt that he should be saddened. Another part of him knew that Mira would have chided him for even considering it. Death was part of life, and it was not so terribly important to the Clans. He would miss her counsel, though, irreverent as it was.

Sigurd murmured an “Aff.” At least it had been quick.

 

 

The debriefing began just before sunset, once all the officers had had a chance to rest. As it turned out, Sigurd had not missed much of the battle. Once the spine of their 'Mech forces was broken, the Horses had deemed it too costly to continue fighting and conceded. The Trial had ended, he learned, quite shortly after his _Stormcrow_ was felled.

Although the Thirteenth's margin of victory was much narrower than they hoped, the price was acceptable for their winnings. Of course, the Trial of Possession had always been secondary to their true goal: keeping the Horses busy. The opposing Cluster would never be able to depart Planting in time to support their Horses' defenses against the Wolf frontline Galaxies.

There was a third prize for the Wolves, as well: data. The battleROMs from their engagement could prove quite valuable to the Clan, and information traveled much more quickly than warriors. Akela had already advised the 103rd Striker Cluster of the Hell's Horses' latest tactics. Hopefully, their throthkin would make good use of that intelligence as they wrestled for control of Planting.

By the time the debriefing came to a close, all of Sigurd's questions had been answered save for one: how did the mêlée begin? The other officers were in agreement that the Horses had been the ones to break zellbriegen. Even Star Colonel Seidman had not refuted that during his conversation with Akela. Yet Sigurd found it difficult to believe that they had really been so careless.

He stepped out of the command post into the growing darkness, still dissatisfied and trying to silence the noise in his head. Perhaps a run would help clear his mind. Or at least drive him to the point of exhaustion, so he could simply pass out. Either would work.

As he scanned the ragged hills and low cliffs nearby, bouncing restlessly on the balls on his feet, he noticed a light above one hilltop. It was small and red-orange, like an ember. Sigurd narrowed his eyes and followed it.

 

“You really should not make yourself such a target,” he said as he ascended the sloping hill.

Matthew jumped, looking like he might bolt out of his own skin, and hurriedly stabbed the cigarette into the rock beside him with a mutter of, “ _Shit!_ ” He raked his hands back into his messy hair and looked down at the ground with the expression of someone whose life was passing before their eyes.

Sigurd sat down and said nothing further.

After several minutes of silence, Matthew had apparently had enough. “Whatever you're gonna do, just get it over with.”

“I do not feel like expending my energy on you, right now,” he replied. As much as he would have enjoyed that run, this had waited long enough. “Instead, I want to talk.”

“About what?

“You,” Sigurd replied. “You still have not told me why you left Bloody Steel.”

Now it was Matthew who fell silent.

“It seems so strange to me that you would leave them. All your friends and family. The people you have known nearly all your life,” Sigurd mused. He looked Matthew in the eye. “But I suppose that leaving people behind is nothing new for you.”

“I... I needed a change of pace,” Matthew replied quietly. His voice was even, but held a tinge of uncertainty that Sigurd immediately recognized.

“Finally got tired of working for your dear, doting uncle, then? I wonder if Sutton even knows where you went. He must be sick with worry. And Tessa, too. I can only image how she must feel.”

Matthew paled and looked a bit sick. He drew his knees up to his chest. “Tessa and I... We, uh— I left things in a bad place with her. Don't think she'll be missin' me.”

“Hm. Well, I suppose that hardly matters now, quiaff?”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, cautiously.

“You seem to have found new companionship quickly enough.”

Matthew snorted. “The hell are you on about? No one even treats me like a goddamn _person_.”

“Except for Erhan.”

“Erhan's a friend.”

Sigurd turned to face him. “ _Ein Freund? Oder_ dein _Freund?_ ”

Matthew tensed. “I don't know what you—”

“I know you think of me as an uneducated Periphery hick, but I am observant,” Sigurd said sharply. “Although, it does not take any great cunning to realize the two of you are _fucking_. Not when you spend your nights in his quarters.”

Matthew's eyes widened, and he looked to be in the process of scrambling for an excuse.

“Oh, you think I had not noticed? They keep _logs_ for the bondsmens' quarters.”

“So I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Fine! You caught me. But I wasn't... We were just _talking!_ ”

“Is that why he smells like your cigarettes? Why you have bite-marks on your shoulder?”

Matthew tugged the collar of his shirt up reflexively. He remained silent, but a bright flush was rising in his skin. Anger, shame—perhaps a combination of both.

 _Weakness_.

Sigurd pounced on it. “I find it curious, though,” he continued. “I have never known you to have an interest in men. So, I wonder what you expect to get from Erhan in exchange for this. Information? Protection?”

“That's not...”

“Probably best that you parted ways with your uncle. It would just kill him to know that you're going to bed with a _Clanner_.”

Instead of replying, Matthew wheeled around and swung a fist at him. Sigurd saw it coming, though, and dodged easily as he stood. What he did not see or expect, however, was Matthew tackling him right off the hill.

He lost his balance even as he brought his hands down on Matthew's shoulders to free himself, and the two of them tumbled down the slope. Sigurd brought his knee up into Matthew's gut, and the bondsman retaliated with a punch to his ribs. He felt a sharp jab in the back of his right shoulder as they rolled—a rock—and then another punch from Matthew. He kneed the man again, and twisted his fingers into the fabric of Matthew's shirt for purchase to pry him away.

Sigurd landed on his back, his right arm aching, and Matthew tried to pin him down—poorly. He shot one fist out, catching Matthew in the jaw, and then rotated his hips to throw the other man. Matthew cursed and tumbled off, cradling his jaw with one hand. Sigurd scrambled halfway to his feet, then leapt after Matthew. They struggled for a moment, each punching and kicking in an artless scuffle, until Sigurd finally maneuvered out of Matthew's grasp. He pushed the bondsman back down into the dirt and straddled his torso, not even caring to pin his arms, and began raining down punches. Matthew hit back at first, but gradually, his resistance waned until he was only holding his arms up to shield his head. Sigurd found his strikes beginning to falter, as well; it was not entirely from the pain in his arm.

When he finally stopped altogether, he realized that Matthew was shaking slightly. Sigurd moved off of him and sat down on the ground nearby, letting his injured arm hang limp. Matthew relaxed his own arms slightly, but kept his hands over his face, fingers twisted into his now-dusty hair. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Suddenly, Matthew screamed—in pain or rage, and his sobbing became louder.

As Sigurd reached up to rub at a stinging cut on his cheek, he realized that he was crying, too. He had no idea why. He wiped at his eyes, trying to stop it.

Slowly, Matthew heaved himself into an upright position, though his face was still buried in his hands. “Just fucking kill me, already,” he choked out between sobs. “I-I can't do this, anymore.”

“...What?”

The other man was visibly shaking, gasping for breath, and trying desperately to curl himself into a ball. “I've just... just fucked up everything! With you. With Tessa. I-I pushed her away. A-and Leo—” He broke off, sobbing harder. “I... I can't keep... I can't keep pretending to...”

Sigurd watched him for a moment in silence. “Pretending to...?”

There was no reply for some time. He was breathing erratically, shivering, trying not to choke on his own tears. Gradually, he seemed to settle down enough to breathe properly. “Pretending to be... this,” Matthew said, his voice raw. He inhaled slowly and dropped his hands from his face, but did not look at Sigurd. “Acting like I don't... Like I'm some kind of gruff, hardened merc. Pretending that I'm even cut out to— to _be_ a MechWarrior!” He fell silent for a moment, attempting to stifle the last of his tears, then said in a much smaller voice, “Pretending that I'm... straight.”

Sigurd lifted his head. That was one thing he had never thought to consider.

“I don't care what you do to me,” Matthew said softly. He turned, eyes red and his face scuffed and scraped. “But Erhan... He's a good man. Please don't... Don't punish him for this. I've already fucked up enough people's lives.”

He rose to his feet slowly and met Matthew's eyes. Strangely, the usual anger and snarling hatred were absent. Looking at him now, Sigurd could only see the bloodied, tear-stained face of the man who had once been his closest friend.

“Please. I'm begging you.”

“Matthew,” he said quietly. “Go back to camp.”

“But—”

Sigurd sighed heavily, and began climbing back up the hill. “Just... go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. hegira, n: honorable withdrawal from battle granted to a defeated enemy; allows the losing party to disengage without further combat or cost.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an unexpected encounter.

Chapter 46

 

Sigurd turned over lazily, gazing up at the sun through the mirror of the Ifing River's surface as he floated. The water was pleasantly cool around him—a welcome reprieve from the remorseless summer sun. He let the river carry him for a moment, feeling the comforting push and pull of the current on his body. It was like feeling the pulse of the whole planet.

He knew he could not stay here forever, no matter how much he wished it. A slight pressure began to creep into his chest, signaling that it was time to return to the surface. When he turned and swam upwards, however, he seemed to get no closer. He paused a moment, wondering if he had sunk deeper than he thought, then continued swimming.

Suddenly, he realized that his skin was not wet from the river. In fact, he was nowhere near it. This was perspiration. He was soaked with sweat. He lifted a hand and wiped it across his face to no effect. His eyes were watering, too. It was coming out of his mouth, his nose, every pore in his body. Like a flood. It wouldn't stop. All the water was leaving his body. He screamed—or tried to—and found himself choking as the liquid bubbled up from his throat.

Sigurd thrashed and abruptly found himself sitting up in his sleeping bag. He coughed forcefully, trying to clear his too-tight throat before he suffocated. He thumped a fist against his sternum—and instantly regretted it when pain shot through his injured shoulder and the still-healing gash across his chest. It let him breathe, though. Sigurd inhaled through his nose slowly, and after a moment to reorient himself, began to dry his eyes.

He hated to cry. _Waste of water._

The dream was beginning to slide from his mind now and he let it, ignoring the phantom taste of the river in his mouth. He briefly considered lying down to try and chase sleep again, but quickly dismissed that idea. It rarely worked. Besides that, he had a lot to do and, he surmised, a short time to do it. Sighing, he rose to his feet unsteadily, body stiff and aching.

He pulled his shirt off over his head and examined the harjel “bandage” Tammi had applied to his wound days earlier. It had not come off when he showered, but it was beginning to peel back as his skin healed. The part of his chest that was still covered itched, though. He pinched one edge of the harjel, which felt a bit like semi-dried plant sap, and tugged at it experimentally.

Another instant regret. Sigurd hissed in pain and pressed his shirt over the part of the wound he'd agitated, trying to staunch the fresh bleeding. Chiding himself, he pulled on a fresh uniform and stepped out of his tent.

Sigurd skipped breakfast. The uneasiness of the previous day had not yet left him. He ached too, from the scuffle last night, but he concealed the pain carefully. There were still those who might take any hesitancy or show of weakness as an opportunity to attack.

Just as he had done to Matthew.

A twisting sensation roiled deep in his gut, but he forced it down as he made his way to the command post. _Focus!_ he told himself. He breezed past the few technicians working at the comms and sensors, and made his way through the origami-like tent to the wing that held the computer terminals.

Star Captain Julian sat at one, face illuminated by the amber glow of text. He was the only person in the room, and exactly the one Sigurd had been hoping to find. He looked up from his work the moment Sigurd entered the room, right arm twitching as if to go for his knife. Julian relaxed upon actually seeing him, but his expression remained aloof. He returned to his work.

“Good morning, Star Captain,” Sigurd greeted, reminding himself to give the other officer plenty of warning when approaching.

Julian frowned slightly. “Is there something that you require, Star Commander?” He glanced back with a look that said, “Make it quick,” then returned his gaze to the terminal. Julian had never warmed to Sigurd, and perhaps he never would, but that did not particularly matter.

“Is it possible for me to review some of the battleROMs from the Trial, ovkhan?”

“That is something you should ask Star Commander Melli about, _quiaff?_ ” Julian said, voice terse. “She is the coregn.”

“Aff, I would, but I can hardly get more than two words from her. And one of those is always— Well, you know.” Julian didn't reply, though the corners of his mouth twitched downward. Sigurd continued. “I realize I still have much to learn. I had hoped to examine my warriors' performance, and study some of our more veteran throthkin's tactics.”

Julian inhaled through his nose, then sighed as one did in the midst of relenting. “Aff, very well,” he said. Julian stood and walked over to another terminal, typed in a few commands, then relinquished it to Sigurd.

He thanked the Star Captain, then seated himself and got to work. As expected, Julian had not granted Sigurd unfettered access to the file system: Akela's ROM was not available, nor that of anyone ranked higher than Star Commander. What Julian had given him, however, was more than suitable for his purpose.

Sigurd began with Gunnar's ROM, which was surprising only in the modicum of restraint the man exhibited. He took notes in the small book he carried, though, and continued to do so as he watched Shenna's record and then Cora's. Each of those held some interest, as he was not well-acquainted with either warrior's fighting style. With those reviewed, he opened Alger's battleROM. It was very short.

Sigurd glanced down and tapped at the datapad in his thigh pocket. The surgery was over, listed as “successful.” Just what that meant, however, he did not know.

Watching Erhan's ROM was a strange experience. The two of them had spent nearly the whole battle together, and so seeing his 'Mech from this angle—so close to his memories but not precisely the same—made him feel briefly outside himself. Sigurd caught a glimpse of his _Stormcrow_ battling the Gnomes, then falling to the _Thresher_. Erhan brought the _Thresher_ down shortly after. Those last few minutes of the Trial were even stranger than the rest, because he did not remember them at all.

Gathering his wits again, he moved on to the records of another Star. There, he found what he was really looking for: Melli's battleROM. She was the first to report that zellbriegen was off. She must have seen what happened—what Akela had done.

After letting it play normally for a few minutes, he scrubbed to the footage to the point shortly before Melli had sent her alert. It was possible to doctor a ROM with time and skill, or to simply eliminate a portion it due to a “technical error.” It did not appear, however, that Melli's record had been altered in any way, and Sigurd soon discovered why.

There was nothing to hide.

Her _Hellbringer_ , still in much better condition than he had seen on the field, was dueling long-range with an opposing _Summoner_. Melli had less armor, but she had two ER PPCs to her opponent's one and the terrain was more to her favor. She was also a very good shot. One of her PPCs punched the _Summoner_ in its gut, staggering it. She stepped out from the roughs—odd, because she could have certainly landed another blast from her previous position—and aimed.

There was a deep rumble from outside her cockpit, and then sudden jolt shook the _Hellbringer_. Its HUD showed damage to the back of its left leg. Melli swore under her breath, sounding more annoyed than incensed, and let loose a bolt of her PPC into the _Summoner._ She seemed to have almost expected that.

She hit the comm. “All units be advised, the Trial has gone to mêlée combat. Repeat: this is now a _mêlée._ ” Melli paid no heed to the second attacker, and instead focused her energies on the _Summoner_.

It was just as Akela had said: the Horses had broken zellbriegen. And yet...

Sigurd scrubbed the footage back and examined the _Hellbringer's_ HUD carefully. Sensors denoted the _Summoner_ half a klick ahead at her one-o'clock, a single Horse tank at her six, and a friendly unit in her five-o'clock. He let the battleROM play at reduced speed, and looked up to the compressed rear arc of Melli's display. The other Wolf 'Mech traded shots with the tank in slow motion, and their dance gradually brought them closer to Melli. The tank crew were careful with their shots, but failed to anticipate a short hop from their target. They missed, and hit Melli's _Hellbringer_ instead.

He let the rest of the ROM play, occasionally stopping to examine certain moments of the battle with exaggerated interest. Melli's ROM ended, and he moved on to watch one of her subordinates, taking notes, and appearing equally interested in all of them. When it was not possible to conceal one's tracks, he had learned, the next best option was to muddle them.

 

Halfway through his review of Melli's Star, Sigurd's appetite returned. He stood, stretched a bit, and gave Julian a parting nod. As he stepped out of the command post, he spotted Akela standing in in the thoroughfare, speaking with a warrior Sigurd did not recognize. An AeroSpacer, judging by height and physique, with black hair buzzed nearly to the scalp and brown skin slightly dulled with spacer's pallor. The two were chatting amiably with one another.

 _No, scratch that_ , Sigurd thought as he watched their interactions. They were flirting with each other—insofar as Clansmen practiced such behavior.

He began to turn away, having no real need to speak with Akela at the moment, and no desire to become a third wheel to...whatever this was. But the Star Colonel took notice of his presence then and waved him over. Sigurd noted the AeroSpacer's rank patch as he approached, and gave them both a brisk salute.

Akela gave a bemused frown as he looked Sigurd over, returning the salute, but made no comment on the newest scrapes and bruises. He half-turned to his companion. “This is Star Commander Sigurd, one of our Cluster's newer members.” Turning back to Sigurd, he began, “And this is—”

“Star Captain Nuuka Susanu,” the AeroSpacer introduced herself, “of the DropShip _Snarling Beast_. I will be giving your Cluster a ride home.”

Sigurd nodded respectfully. “It is good to meet you, ovkhan.”

“We both have work, so I will not keep you any longer,” Nuuka said to Akela. “But if it is not too forward for a mere Star Captain to say,” she teased him, “perhaps you can stop by my quarters, later tonight.”

“Only if you stop by mine tomorrow,” he purred.

Sigurd began tuning them out, when three words suddenly caught his attention.

“Fifteen hundred, then,” said Nuuka.

“Fourteen? We could start with a bit of sparring.”

“Bargained well and done.”

Akela grinned, and the DropShip captain gave him an impish look before departing on her own way. He watched her for a moment, then turned back to Sigurd.

“Old flame?” Sigurd asked, deadpan.

The Star Colonel looked mildly scandalized. “Not in the way I believe you are implying, neg.” Akela grimaced, trying to find the words he wanted, but stopped abruptly when he noticed Sigurd suppressing a smirk. “Ah, I see. A good joke, Star Commander. Very cute,” he muttered.

“Thank you, ovkhan,” Sigurd replied, chuckling. “I imagine there is something you wished to speak to me about, quiaff?”

“Aff. I thought you should know your _Stormcrow_ has been recovered,” Akela said. “The official damage report is not yet complete, but the engine was destroyed beyond our technicians' ability to restore in the field.”

Sigurd nodded. “I... expected as much.” The moment the _Stormcrow's_ power vanished around him, he knew there would be no salvaging its fusion engine. The only solution was to drop in a new one. “I do not suppose we have any spare 330 XLs lying about, quineg?”

“Neg. Fresh out,” Akela said with a regretful smile. “I wanted to inform you now, so that you may begin considering a replacement. Some of the Horse 'Mechs we salvaged might be of interest to you. Or you may consider claiming one of your Starmates' customary machines, and allocating the salvage to them.”

“Aff. I will give it thought.”

“I also wished to speak to you about the Trial, while we have a moment.”

Sigurd inclined his head slightly, in imitation of the attentive look Akela often showed.

“Thank you,” Akela said, quite unexpectedly.

“Ovkhan?”

He paused. “When my _Pouncer_ went down, I was only focused on getting it back on its feet. I did not even see the Gnomes until I was standing, again. They would have killed me.”

Sigurd gave nod. “ _You're welcome_ ,” seemed, somehow, an inappropriate response.

Akela scanned his face curiously. “That is, I believe, the second time you have endangered yourself on my account.” His expression was not one of suspicion, but something perhaps near to it. He looked as though he was regarding a puzzle, trying to determine where he ought to place the next piece.

“It occurred to me,” Sigurd replied carefully, “that losing our CO might turn the battle far too heavily in our opponents' favor.”

The Star Colonel gave a thoughtful _humm_. Whether that answer satisfied him, it was difficult to tell. In any case, he turned and left.

 

 

It was fourteen twenty-three. The line of the horizon sliced across the red, shimmering sun as it sank ever lower. Sigurd perched on a rock, pretending to look over notes and reports while he observed the camp. Akela was gone, (Sigurd had seen him depart), and enough time had passed that he felt certain the Star Colonel was unlikely to return until nightfall. If Akela had left anything behind, he was surely too busy with the DropShip captain now to bother returning.

He stood up and walked over to the nearest group of tents. The ROM was a good find, but it was hardly damning and he doubted Helina Kerensky would settle for anything less than that. No one was watching, but Sigurd kept his posture casually assured and his stride unhurried. I am on my way to look for the Star Colonel. I am not going anywhere I do not belong. He lifted the flap of Akela's tent and slipped inside.

And saw Melli. She was crouched over a noteputer, her pale skin washed in the sickly green glow of its screen. Hearing him enter, she bolted to her feet and wheeled around to face him.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she demanded, voice angry but unsteady. That was the first time he had heard anything less than total confidence from her.

“I was looking for the Star Colonel,” Sigurd replied. He forced himself to look perplexed rather than anxious “Is he back, yet, quineg?”

Melli scrutinized him for a moment, but it was not long and she did not seem to quite know what she was trying to find. “Oh,” she said, relaxing slightly. “Neg.”

Now he had the advantage. “Why are _you_ here?” If he could keep her off-balance, she might forget that he had just strolled in, rather than announcing himself as he should have.

Her face flushed so red he could see it even in the dim light of the tent. “I... I was...” she stammered, growing no closer to finding an excuse to latch onto.

So, Sigurd noted, not only was Melli unable to spot a lie, but she could not fabricate one, either. He wondered how long she had been Akela's coregn. She clearly had not picked up any of his guile. He arched his eyebrows, then looked past her shoulder to the screen of the noteputer. File directories. Part of a 'Mech schematic in a dense exploded view. A text document with large blocks of text marked [REDACTED]. And a name.

_Black Wolf._

“Helping the Star Colonel, quiaff?” he supplied.

“A-aff.”

“With this 'Black Wolf' project?”

Her eyes went wide.

“I will leave you to that, then,” Sigurd said disinterestedly, and turned to leave. “When I see the Star Colonel, I will tell him—”

Melli grabbed him by the shoulder of his coat and yanked him away from the doorway with surprising force. “You will tell him nothing!” she hissed.

Sigurd looked down at her hand, still clenching his uniform so hard her knuckles went white, then glanced up to her face. “You do not give me orders, Star Commander.”

“I will kill you, if I must.”

He shrugged out of her grip, trying not to wince as pain shot through his arm, and turned to face her again. “You can try,” he said. “Though, even if you succeed, you would have to explain my demise.”

She fumed, but seemed to consider that and took a step back from him. “The Star Colonel cannot know of this.”

“Why not?”

She looked down, eyes darting back and forth in nervous thought. “I am... I have orders.”

“Orders?”

“From the Galaxy Commander.” Melli scowled. “If you compromise my mission, you will have to deal with _her_.”

Sigurd fought the impulse to laugh.

“Why are you starting at me, freebirth? Do you understand what I just said?” she snarled.

He considered his options quickly. “I will help you.”

“What?” She shook her head. “Neg! Absolutely neg! I cannot have you interfering in this. Just leave and stay quiet about—”

“I _also_ have orders from the Galaxy Commander.” It might be overplaying his hand to let Melli know this, but it was a gamble he was willing to make.

Melli stared at him a moment in disbelief, then bit her knuckle to suppress a snarl of rage. “You?” she hissed. “Why _you?_ I have been diligently following her orders for nearly a year!”

“And what have you found?”

His question was met with silence.

Sigurd walked past Melli and crouched down in front of the computer, careful not to touch anything. “We should not remain here. If we divide the work, we can analyze things faster.”

“Very well,” she said grudgingly. Melli moved to join him, and slotted another datachip into the noteputer. “But if this operation goes sideways, it will be on your head, not mine.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is silence.

Chapter 47

 

When he stepped out of the simulator pod, Mira was not there. It took him a moment to remember why.

Sigurd rubbed at his temples, trying to chase off the first waves of a headache, then took a deep draught from his canteen. There was a whine of hydraulics behind him, and he turned swiftly to face the other simulator pod as its hatch yawned open.

Melli leaned out of the door and looked him over critically. She was just as sweaty, but somehow looked far more calm and collected. Victory probably contributed to it.

“I had been lead to expect better.”

Sigurd took another drink, avoiding her gaze. He didn't bother to defend himself against her remark; there was no point in it. Melli had won their first duel handily after hamstringing his _Mad Dog_. Although she insisted that simulators were little more than toys, she seemed to take her win as clear confirmation of freeborn inferiority. If anyone were ever to change her mind, he knew it would not be him, and it would not be today.

“Are you unwell?” she asked, in the way one might inquire if a machine were functioning properly—with the implication that a malfunction would be inconvenient for her.

“Neg,” Sigurd replied, even as a slight tremor passed through his nerves. “I am fine.”

Melli took it at face value, and leaned back into her pod. “Very well. Try to give me some challenge, this time,” she said, pulling the hatch closed.

Sigurd climbed back into his own sim pod and re-situated himself. He slipped on the neurohelmet, started the program, and immediately felt it draw upon his senses. It felt... wrong. Only output, no input. Always taking, never giving. It was hollow and false.

There was a temptation to blame the shallowness of the simulation for his earlier defeat. He could not feel the 'Mech like he wanted—no, _needed_ to. While that had hindered his performance, he knew it was not the sole cause of his failure. Melli had simply outmaneuvered him.

He supposed it did not matter. While the losses stung, there was no prize for winning except pure satisfaction. The only reason Sigurd had even suggested this, and the only reason Melli had agreed, was privacy.

The simulator room on the DropShip _Snarling Beast_ was little-used, and the pods had a closed comm-line between them. This was their best and perhaps only chance to discuss what they had found and make plans. In just a few short days, the Cluster would depart from Planting. There would be no changing course after that.

“Choose a map,” Melli's voice buzzed in his ear.

“Aff.”

Sigurd browsed through the choices and settled on the Scar: an arctic location painstakingly recreated after a river of the same name on the Wolf homeworld. They each selected their 'Mechs—Melli in an _Ice Ferret_ and he in a _Viper_ —and the match began.

The environment materialized around him: a boreal forest that gave way to a vast frozen tundra. About half a klick north, the land dipped where the wide river coursed through it. There was something shimmery in the distance, and after a moment's study, he realized it was light reflecting off the partially-frozen river. The sun hung low in the sky, half-concealed by clouds, providing little illumination beyond scattered glints against the ice and a general silvery haze.

Snow whipped across the viewscreen intermittently. During the worst of it, he found himself barely able to see past the _Viper's_ prominent nose. He switched on the IR overlay and glanced to his weapon readout. With the H-configuration, close-range was all he needed. The hazy atmosphere would be more of a headache for Melli than for him.

Sigurd cut across the treeline first, keeping to the lower terrain as much as he could. After a minute or so of that, he turned toward the river, moving between scattered clumps of brush and hillocks. There was no sign yet of Melli. He kept his gaze moving between his viewscreen, HUD, and sensors, alert for any sign of her OmniMech.

As he neared the river, he finally caught sight of her moving ghost-like through the snowdrifts on the opposite shore. He thought briefly of an arctic predator he had once seen on a nature trid: a little thing with bleach-white fur and black eyes like river pebbles. The memory vanished the next instant, and only the outline of the _Ice Ferret_ remained. It seemed to belong in this world.

“Have you ever been here?” he asked suddenly. “To this river?”

Melli twisted to get a bead on him, and Sigurd hit the throttle to dive into cover. She was well outside his weapons' range. The _Viper_ was unable to torso-twist, which was a serious disadvantage—mitigated somewhat by its jump jets. Against an equally fast 'Mech with superior reach, ambush was the most promising tactic for him.

“No.” A pause as Melli snapped off a bolt of her ER PPC. It grazed his arm, flaking armor as he slipped behind a snowbank. “I have only been to the capital and the dens.”

“Dens?”

“Our crèches and sibko facilities?” she said, clearly annoyed at explaining the slang.

“Hm. You graduated your sibko... five years ago, quiaff?”

“Neg. Six.”

Sigurd hummed thoughtfully as he slowed, and leaned the control stick for a tight turn. “And still no bloodname.”

The next PPC missed, and Melli was silent for a long moment. “I am a Kerensky. I can afford to be picky,” she said. “In fact, it is encouraged.”

Sigurd throttled up again, then leapt across the narrowest point of the river. He landed in Melli's eight o'clock, and opened fire with his heavy medium lasers, melting armor from her left arm. “I saw your battleROM,” Sigurd continued, darting away again to disappear into the snow flurry. “The Star Colonel hit his jumpjets at the last second. Deliberately moved so that the Horses would hit you, instead. He used you as bait. And you let him?”

There was an irritable snort over the line. “He promised to sponsor me. Four years ago,” Melli said, her voice low and sour as she whirled her 'Mech around to pursue.

“So you have been doing his dirty work ever since.”

“I should be a Star Captain, by now. I should be bloodnamed...”

Sigurd darted forward into a shallow valley, then lowered his 'Mech into a crouch behind a snowdrift. He could see it, now. The way Melli had practically taken over Akela's office while he was incapacitated, the irritation she showed in the battleROM.

“I understand why you are so angry with him. That is why you agreed to help the Galaxy Commander, quiaff?”

He was met once more with silence, as the two of them stalked each other through the snow. Suddenly, the _Ice Ferret_ reappeared on his radar. Sigurd slammed down on his jumpjets, bursting from cover, and opened up with all of his lasers. The _Ice Ferret_ stumbled, then whipped around and slapped his _Viper_ with a PPC.

“What is _your_ motivation?” Melli sneered, as he stumbled into cover.

“Following orders,” Sigurd replied. He glanced back toward the river bank, examining the ground. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“And no initiative of your own. You just do what others tell you without question,” she said with increasing agitation. Melli sent a swarm of missiles into the snowbank which shielded him, and stalked forward. “You will never be anything but a tool for someone else to use.”

As she neared, Sigurd dashed out into the open, running parallel to the river. Melli turned quickly and plunged through the snow after him. He let her close for just an instant, then turned hard and leapt across the river. Melli followed him to the edge of the water—and immediately fell through the ice.

The _Ice Ferret_ sank as far as its knees, mired in half-frozen swamp. Rather than struggle and flail, however, Melli simply caught her balance and torso-twisted to keep firing on Sigurd. Her PPC grazed over his _Viper's_ beak-like center torso and ripped half the armor from his right side. Her subsequent shots missed as he hit his jumpjets again, and leapt back over the river to land behind her. Melli twisted back and forth for a moment, trying to catch him at the edges of her weapons' arcs to no avail.

Sigurd steadied his crosshairs over the back of her OmniMech and squeezed the trigger. Gutted, the _Ice Ferret_ fell face-down into the marsh. The match ended, and the landscape dissolved back to the starting menu. The screen said “victory,” but it hardly felt like one. Sighing, he unhooked his harness and slumped down in the command couch.

“Well?” Melli asked tersely.

Several responses sprang to mind. Most of them acerbic. Sigurd found himself far too tired for any of them.

Instead, he simply replied, “I do not care for the _Viper_.”

  
  


Sigurd lost the third match. A dry lakebed. His _Thresher_ against Melli's _Hellbringer_. He ruined her gyro. She shot out his cockpit.

His spirits were a bit poor afterward, but he found himself more upset that he had not yet settled on a replacement 'Mech than he was about losing. After all, he had learned far more about Melli than she had about him, at the cost of nothing but his time. Even better, he had learned something about Akela.

In between trying to “kill” one another, he and Melli had decided to deliver the information they had found separately. Melli would deliver her portion in person to the Galaxy Commander, deeming it was too classified to be transmitted via HPG. She also (conveniently) deemed it too classified to share with Sigurd.

In trying to avoid notice yesterday, Melli had simply snatched the most important-looking thing, and only copied the rest at Sigurd's insistence. His portion of the data was therefore larger and much broader in scope, though “more” did not necessarily mean “better.” From what little Sigurd had been able to study so far—most of the data was encrypted—it seemed that he was in possession of such wonders as the Star Colonel's planner, some old notes (“Julian's qtrs 1900,” “tx eq reqs,” etc.), a few chat logs with someone called N, the Thirteenth's most recent TO&E, and a holophoto of Akela with another MechWarrior. Sigurd had lingered on the photo longest.

In it, the Star Colonel appeared perhaps ten years younger—clean-shaven, scarless—and smiling as he pestered the woman beside him. She was pale, with short, dark hair and a nose that looked previously broken. Her scowl signaled annoyance but her posture indicated an easy familiarity, much as he had seen between Lorna and Gunnar. Sigurd wondered if perhaps this was the _Timber Wolf_ pilot whose ROM he had watched those months ago. _Big fox_ , she had called Akela.

While the holophoto interested him, Sigurd decided that there was nothing mission-relevant to learn from it or any of the other unencrypted files. Not on his own, and not in the time he had. If Akela really had been a spy himself, he was unlikely to leave anything incriminating just lying about. No, it was best to transmit everything to the Galaxy Commander as soon as possible. Let her sort it out.

Fortunately, none of the HPG technicians questioned him when he sent his message. Having that information out of his hands, beamed across the void, Sigurd felt... either relief or a slight dread. He was not certain which. The important thing, he told himself as he left the comm station, crushing the data chip under the heel of his boot, was that he could now focus on other things.

His Star was in pitiful shape after the Trial. Only Erhan's _Shadow Hawk IIC_ was in anything approaching fighting condition. The _Mad Dog_ would be field-worthy once the techs put its leg back together. The heartless _Stormcrow_ , the brainless _Lobo_ , and the gutless _Glass Spider_ , however, were doomed to be dust-collectors until parts became available.

Then, of course, there was the matter of pilots.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Sigurd bristled as he stepped into the field hospital. The chemical smell struck him first, followed by the lingering scent of old blood. He had made a point of avoiding this place for the past several days, always managing to slip off before anyone cajoled or coerced him into going. Sigurd shut out the prickling of old memories, and headed to the inpatient ward.

He found Alger half-reclined in one of the infirmary beds. His head was shaved completely bald, partly bandaged and partly bare, with a large, bulky thing affixed to his crown and connected by cables to a nearby machine. Although Alger's face was bruised and some sutured gashes were visible on his shoulder, that seemed the worst of his external injuries. At the moment, he was staring at the ceiling of the room with weary, reddened eyes, and held a datapad in his lap.

“MechWarrior,” Sigurd greeted him.

A brief, anguished expression passed across Alger's face. “Star Commander,” he replied, voice straining. He continued looking at the ceiling, but finally spoke again after a moment, his speech unusually slow and strangely drawled. “You will forgive me for not standing.”

Sigurd half-chuckled, though on further consideration, he realized Alger had not meant that as a joke. He never joked. “How do you feel?”

“Ve-very little,” Alger replied. Each syllable was deliberate, as if he was wading through a swamp to find his words. “They have me on a lot of— ah, painkillers. Ovkhan.”

He took a chair and pulled it up next to Alger's bed. “I am pleased you are still with us, after that _Glass Spider_ hit you.”

“ _Glass Spider_ ,” Alger repeated slowly, and for a moment, his eyes became distant. “Why would Irene...?”

“Neg,” Sigurd broke in quickly. “It was Hell's Horses. Two days ago.”

Alger still looked uncertain, though more alert than he had earlier.

“We were flanked when the mêlée began. An enemy 'Mech... It shot your _Lobo_ through the head.”

“I do not remember,” Alger murmured, frowning.

Sigurd nodded. “Understandable. You were very badly wounded. That you survived at all is...”

“Unfortunate.”

“Why...? Why do you say that?”

Alger paused. “F-forgive me, ovkhan, I...” He faltered again, and let go of the datapad. “That was _. I will continue to serve the Clan.”_

Sigurd furrowed his brow. That seemed an odd thing to say. He understood how severe a head injury could be, but Clan medical science was incredibly, frighteningly advanced.

“Recovery can be very difficult,” Sigurd said. That, he knew all too well. “But you will recover, quiaff? I heard of a MechWarrior who returned to the field after they repaired his severed spinal cord.”

Alger gave him a strange look, and he immediately felt foolish for saying anything. Before he could change the subject, however, Alger lifted a shaking hand and pushed the datapad toward him.

A cursory glance at its contents told Sigurd only that the subject matter was medical and far beyond his comprehension. He skimmed through it, trying to catch whatever bits and pieces he could understand. He realized now, too, that the device on Alger's head actually went through his skull and into his brain, monitoring it. Scrolling down, he came to a diagram of the damage. It was both better and much, much worse than he had imagined. It appeared (to his untrained eye), that Alger's injuries had been fully repaired. But all wounds took time to heal, and many left scars.

“They say I will be able to walk again, w-with therapy. Speaking is difficult, right now. That will get better. In time. Thinking clearly, too.” Alger wrenched his eyes shut.

“That is good—”

“Balance... My balance will never be what it was.”

The quiet that followed was almost tangible, thickening the atmosphere in the room with an oppressive weight. Now, he understood Alger's distress.

“The Clan will find a place for me. When I am better,” Alger said, voice growing ever more unsteady. “I will continue to serve the Clan.”

Their conversation did not last long after that. Alger seemed to be bleeding energy every second he was awake, and the nurses soon came by to shoo Sigurd away, urging their patient to rest. As the medics worked, Sigurd noticed that they regarded Alger in a more friendly manner than they did him. It seemed odd, at first. Then Sigurd realized that they already knew what he had just learned: Alger was now a Warrior in name only.

  
  


Sigurd took his time walking to the dining hall. Despite his hunger and the smell of hot food, he could not seem to pull himself out of his own thoughts. No matter what he did, every thought circled back to Alger. And, to his shame, his own fears. _Balance_. The word echoed in his mind. Dying had not frightened him in a very long time. There seemed little point in fearing something that was certain to happen. Sooner or later, (and probably sooner, he thought), he would die. Being unable to pilot, however... That was truly terrifying.

He wondered if Alger would ever forgive him. He wondered why he felt he needed it.

The rest of his Starmates arrived at the dining hall well before him, and had claimed a table near the middle of the tent with Lorna and her warriors. Irene and Gunnar sat next to one another, bickering in between scarfing down their meals. Their body language quickly revealed that it was all fangless bark, tonight. Erhan sat opposite them, looking glum and distracted until he noticed Sigurd enter. He jerked his head up then, locking eyes with Sigurd, and his countenance suddenly turned vicious.

Sigurd tensed and felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He had, at that moment, the distinct impression that Erhan was trying to set him on fire with his mind. It was not difficult to guess why. He stiffened his posture, standing taller, and frowned back before moving to collect his meal.

Just as he finished getting his food, he sensed something behind him and turned to find Erhan looming over him. He silently cursed himself for forgetting how quick—and quiet—the Elemental phenotype could be.

“Star Commander,” Erhan said.

He lifted his head to look Erhan in the eye sternly, and said, “He struck first.”

That caught Erhan off-guard. He took half a step back, frowning, and his posture lost some of its intensity. Technically speaking, Sigurd had been acting in self-defense the other night. He would have been well within his rights to do far worse than he had to a bondsman who assaulted him.

Erhan exhaled, looking thoughtful for a moment, then moved closer to Sigurd. Too close. It was a purposeful invasion of space. Although the raw fire had left his eyes, there was still a smouldering anger there. Erhan leaned down to his ear, and lowered his voice so that Sigurd alone could hear.

“If you _ever_ lay a hand on a civilian out of turn,” he warned, “I will tear out your throat.” Erhan looked him in the eye once more, ensuring that his message had been received, then turned and went back to join their Starmates.

Sigurd watched him carefully, left to wonder if Erhan had any practice with that. Either way, he was going to have to do something about it.

  
  


He found Matthew past the west end of camp, sitting on a cliff with his legs dangling over the edge. A bad place to be, in Sigurd's estimation. He approached slowly, letting his boots crunch the parched dirt and rocks to signal his presence. Hearing him, Matthew bowed his head and wrapped his arms around himself.

Sigurd stood for a moment, scanning the sun-drenched landscape, then turned to Matthew and set a bowl of curried rice down on the ground. Matthew regarded it first with surprise, then distrust. He said nothing, but glanced up at Sigurd.

“You are back on normal rations,” he explained.

After another moment of hesitation, Matthew took the bowl. Once it was in his hands, all of his earlier caution evaporated. He practically inhaled the food.

Sigurd sat down next to him, though not too near, and began eating his own meal. He expected at any moment to feel that monster breathing down the back of his neck, urging him to hate. He almost wanted to hear it, to hold onto that hot flame and continue being angry. Strange that it should be silent, now. He never had been good at letting go.

“Why are you out here?” Sigurd asked, when they had both finished eating.

“Shift's over. Needed to think, I guess.”

“About this cliff?”

Matthew's lips pressed into a frown, and he drew his legs up to his chest, moving back from the ledge. “Too much of a coward for that,” he muttered. “Nah. Just been thinkin' about the view. Wonderin' what made all those little tower-thingies.” Matthew gestured to a cluster of rock spires that rose up from the plain like stone trees, narrower near their bases and bulbous at the top.

There was more than that, Sigurd knew. He didn't pursue it. “Wind,” he said. “It picks up sand and carves out the rock.”

“Huh. Mystery solved.” Matthew nodded, looking satisfied with this information. He took a deep breath. “What happens to me, now?”

Sigurd shook his head. “You... have not actually broken any rules,” he said. “Aside from breaking curfew. And punching me. Hm. You broke two rules, then.”

Matthew fixed him with a resolute stare, prepared to accept whatever was coming.

“You can do surkai for that. An extra shift with the salvage crews, until we depart. They need the help.”

He quirked his mouth into a worried line. “That's it?”

“What?” Sigurd snorted. “You want to peel more potatoes?”

“Well, no, I just... You didn't say anything about... me and Erhan.” He mumbled the other man's name, as if he worried someone might overhear. “Is it a problem?” he asked, his voice suddenly becoming unsteady. “That I'm— that I'm bi?”

“By what?”

“Bi _sexual_ ,” Matthew clarified, irritably.

“Do not scoff at me when you do not even use whole words,” Sigurd replied with a snort. “And, neg. The Wolves do not forbid intercaste relations, and none of the Clans care about same-gender coupling.” He paused. “I think they barely know what a gender is.”

“What about you?”

“I know what a gender is,” he grumbled. “I just do not understand how or why your stupid language uses it for grammar.”

“No, not that,” Matthew said, followed by an exasperated mutter of, “ _Vollpost_.”

Sigurd shot him a cross look, but offered no further retaliation.

“I mean, does it bother you?”

“No.”

“That’s… a relief to hear.” He bowed his head again. “Y’know, I don’t blame you for hating me. For other things. I kinda hate me, too.”

Caught off guard, Sigurd looked back at him. Matthew was looking out toward the horizon, studying another distant rock formation. The fading sunlight caught something shiny peeking out of the collar of his shirt: a chain necklace with dog tags.

He remembered their reunion those months ago. Remembered grabbing that chain and twisting it into Matthew’s neck. Remembered threatening to kill him as a howl for vengeance drowned out all other thoughts. Matthew still kept those dog tags. He must have been carrying them for two years, now.

They had searched for him. Yes, they arrived far too late, but they _had_ searched.

There was something Matthew still wasn’t telling him, but he doubted that it was related to what had happened on Virentofta. As much as it hurt, as much as it _felt_ like a betrayal, he found it increasingly difficult to believe that Matthew was guilty of anything except following the orders Sigurd had given him. He listened once more for that other voice, but there was only the distant howl of the wind.

“I... do not want to hate you.”

“Well,” Matthew said, and forced a tired smile, “if you figure that one out, let me know.”


End file.
